Perchance to Dream
by Phoenix II
Summary: After losing everything, one boy must decide what’s worth having in life. Slash, Kyan.
1. Prologue

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.**

**Summary: After losing everything, one boy must decide what's worth having in life. Slash, Kyan.**

**-.-**

Some days I don't want to get out of bed. Correct that. MOST days I don't want to get out of bed. Getting out of bed means leaving my dreams of at least a decent life, if not a perfect life, to wake up in a bed that I truthfully outgrew five years ago in a chilly room with posters covering up the shoddy wallpapering job, no TV, a five-year-old computer that barely runs, and a closet full of clothes whose sole purpose is to keep me warm and/or in uniform.

This particular morning is no different. A gray glow permeates my window blinds as my eyes crack open at six in the morning, which means that the few items I'm lucky enough to possess are blackish-gray blobs to my blurry vision. Tentatively, I lift up the covers and start to uncurl my body from the ball I roll into every night in order to fit into my bed. Almost immediately, I'm greeted by a rush of cold air that chills me through my sweatpants AND my pajama pants AND the longjohns I wear underneath them, the baseball socks, and the sweatshirt that I wear to bed every night. Those, combined with my heavy down comforter, are the only reason I haven't frozen to death long years ago. With a sigh, I throw the covers back and attempt to adjust to the cold air like water in a lake. Within five minutes, either I've adjusted to the cold or been numbed by it to the point where it no longer truly bothers me. I suspect the latter to be true. I amble over to my bureau to retrieve a fresh pair of underwear for after my shower, and lay out the clothes I plan to wear to school today, before grabbing a towel and heading for the bathroom.

Showers have become more of an annoyance to me over the years. It's because of the hair. It's at shoulder-length now, and probably going to keep going for the foreseeable future. As I squeeze the meager dollop of shampoo into my hand and try to spread it evenly into the stringy mass I call my hair, I wish more and more for a trip to the barber to get it cut off. Just to give you a clue about how bad it looks, the past three Halloweens I've gone as Qui-Gon Jinn from Star Wars. With a few weeks of work, I can pull off the goatee/mustache/beard thing. Everybody calls me a hippie at school, and I wear a permanent scowl on my face because of it. Just because I have long hair and work at a coffee shop and play guitar without any real purpose or aim doesn't make me a hippie. I don't wear a black beret and know the ins-and-outs of French Wine and Cheese Culture, or smoke weed and dazedly ask people to vote for Dennis Kucinich and World Peace. I'm not a goddamn hippie.

Shower complete, I hurriedly dry off and run back to my room, dressing as quickly as possible in the numbing cold. A quick glance at the useless thermostat tells me the temperature in my room is sixteen degrees. I fail to repress a shudder as I toss notebooks and pencils into my messenger bag haphazardly and look at the clock. It reads fifteen minutes before seven. I have to leave to make the bus at seven-thirty. I have forty-five minutes. Time for a quick run, or walk, I guess. Cable's out, Internet's out, and I eat breakfast at school, so there's nothing better to do. Pulling on a hat and pulling up the hood on my sweatshirt to fully cover my ears, I slip out my front door, wishing that I could be warm and where I want to be.

I also wish that I wasn't in the situation I was in, as I start my walk along the crusty, snow-covered sidewalks, listening to the sound of my steps and looking down to avoid the wind. The morning sun is still hidden behind the mountains, and everything outside is still gray, just like pretty much everything in my life. Everything started going downhill three years ago, not long after Dad managed to finally pay off the mortgage on the house with a big bonus from his work. After that, he started staying home a lot more, and then he was home everyday, and I didn't understand why. No one would tell me about it. It took me two weeks before I found out that his office had been shut down, and that he was unemployed. Mom's small secretary/receptionist job was now our only source of income, and it was barely enough to keep food on the table.

Dad's unemployment checks from the state managed to pay for a few things like electricity, water, and the phone bill, but Internet, Cable, and even heat had to go. He looked for work, and two years ago was hired as an assistant manager at Burger Palace. That, though, didn't pay any more than the unemployment wages, meaning we lived in a cold house without good TV or Internet. I then went out looking for a job, and was picked up at a coffee shop working after school and on weekends for minimum wage. It pays the Internet bill and the Cable bill, which still doesn't guarantee that they'll work, because the cold does funny things with the cables and wires. I make about $800 a month, but it costs that much to keep our house heated, and with Mom and Dad needing $200 a month for gas, I can only buy enough propane to keep the house heated for two weeks a month. It's about time for another fill-up, and I'll have cable and Internet for another two weeks, but it's still a far cry from what I had.

It's a far cry from what _he_ has. My former best friend, who was all too happy to step up and take my place after I had to consign myself to indentured servitude in order to keep myself and my family in the land of the living. He's the star athlete, even though he's just a running back, he's still the best person on the team. When I had to break up with my girlfriend because I didn't have the time or cash for her anymore, he was right there to smoothly offer her a shoulder to cry on. When I saw them walking down the hall hand-in-hand a week later, I couldn't do anything more than scoff at his apologetic glance and punch my locker so hard I left a dent. When I couldn't hang out with my friends anymore, not only did he swoop in and assume my leadership spot over our group, he didn't even bother trying to schedule things I _could_ do with them. A few days later I saw my old group of friends walking down the hall with Butters in tow.

I sit by myself everywhere in school, socially ostracized from the rest of the students. I'm in the back in every class, and I'm over in the darkest of the dark corners of the lunchroom at lunchtime, under a light fixture that hasn't worked since I was a Freshman. No one makes any attempts to speak with me, and I don't make any attempts to speak with anyone, at least, not anymore. I figured that one out a few years ago, when everyone started ignoring me because I didn't have any money. Teachers don't even call on me to answer questions, and then berate me when report cards come out for not participating in class. Bullshit. I just do my homework, turn it in, do my classwork, turn IT in, take my tests, and get whatever grades I have coming to me. Thankfully, they're usually As or Bs, so I'll still get into college. How I'm going to pay for it, I have no idea at all.

My watch beeps to tell me that it's now seven o'clock. That I've been walking for fifteen minutes and I should turn around and go home to start my ten minute walk to the bus stop. I don't particularly want to. I want to just keep walking until I either die or … well, do something that would take me away from this shit excuse for a life. Especially to take me away from the person I lost first and totally, the person I shouldn't have lost at all, much less _first_. I've come to terms since my sophomore year that Kyle's not my friend anymore. But just because I've come to terms with it doesn't mean I understand it. There's no rule that prevents a Jew and a spoiled fatass from being friends with TWO poor people. At least, there's no rule that I ever heard of that says that.

Scowling at the bad memories, I turn around and start walking home. It's really hard on a guy, not having any friends at all and having to go through the day, watching people you grew up with and know inside and out hang out, have fun, talk about what they're going to be doing that night or some other night when you know _your_ evening is going to consist of serving some of them coffee and playing your guitar for others of them, and then they won't even tip you for it, because they're assholes who just wanted to laugh at you. Kyle's never brought his group around to the coffee shop. Kyle's never brought himself around to the coffee shop. Other members of the group have come in by themselves, none attempting to strike up a conversation with me as I morosely took down their orders and filled them. Not even the perpetually cheerful Butters had anything to say to me while I made him an extra-thick hot chocolate with whipped cream on top.

Is money really the only reason people hung out with me? I wasn't a bad person, I didn't hurt anyone on purpose, I wasn't overly conceited…why am I suddenly a social pariah? I want someone to hang out with. KENNY won't even talk to me, the only other person who's anywhere _close_ to my situation and might be able to understand me. But no, he's part of Kyle's group, and Kyle doesn't want to have anything to do with the boy who's saved his life two or three times and helped him save the world. It can't be because of Cartman, the fatass would love nothing more than to rip on me for being poor. Kyle's even managed to shut _him_ up about it. There has to be some sort of reason for it, but after two years, I STILL haven't been able to figure out what.

Sighing to myself, I trudge on, passing my house and heading for the bus stop. I'm the only one who still uses it, which pisses off the Mexican who drives the bus to no end. Everyone else either drives themselves to school or gets a ride from someone who does. I'm the only person who rides the bus anymore. Every morning, and this morning is no different, when the bus pulls up, he opens the door with a sigh and tells me to get on. When I do so, stepping into something warm and relatively safe makes me breathe a sigh of relief. Even the school bus makes me feel like there's hope. Like there's a chance that I can break free from this cesspool that is my life currently and be somebody.

Of course, that feeling pretty much evaporates the second I step off the bus and trudge up the sidewalk to school, where it's still warm, but it's cold at the same time. The temperature is a nice seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit, which is worlds better from the sixteen degrees in my room or the six degrees it is outside, but the climate is cold. The people are cold, emotionally, towards me, like I'm subhuman, or something else that they'd rather avoid or have a Mexican scrape off their shoes for five dollars. That kind of behavior disgusts me. It makes me wish Dad had taken a job in Denver or somewhere else, so that I wouldn't have to deal with these people.

I'm a talking mute. I can talk, I just … don't. There's no point in it, no one listens to me. I've told the counselor this, but he believed me about as much as he would have if I'd come into his office and given him the exact coordinates where Osama bin Laden was hiding. He just told me that I should try to be friendly to the other kids and they'll talk to me, and a bunch of other crap he keeps on the Post-it notes he has permanently affixed to his computer monitor. As I throw my bag into my locker and head to the cafeteria to soothe my growling stomach, the only thing running through my mind is the question of whether or not this will ever change.

**-.-**

**Notes: This fic is not going to operate on any sort of schedule whatsoever. When I have sufficient spare time, I will work on it. I'm also going to try to work on a few things with my writing style in this story. If you liked it, please review.**

**Thanks,**

**Phoenix II**


	2. At Work I

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: see prologue**

**Summary: Follow Stanley to work.**

**-.-**

_At Work I_

**-.-**

Every day after school, I duck into the boys' bathroom nearest my locker to change clothes. I carry my work uniform in a little drawstring bag that spends most of the day neatly placed inside my schoolbag, along with a stick of deodorant to make sure that if Cartman drops by, he can't accuse me of smelling like sour milk. He's done it before, and once went so far as to replace my gym deodorant with a "special" stick that actually _did_ smell like that, but I caught it and tossed it over my shoulder with an annoyed sigh.

My work uniform consists of a black polo shirt with a cup of coffee on the left breast with the word "Jumpin'" embroidered above the cup and the word "Java" embroidered below it, and a pair of black khaki pants. Greg, my boss, isn't really concerned about my footwear. No one really sees them anyway, so I leave my Chucks on. They're the only things comfortable enough to keep me on my feet for five hours every evening.

It's a fifteen minute walk from school to Jumpin' Java, so I can't leave any later than twenty minutes until four. Today, I manage to get out of school at three thirty-eight, so I allow myself a somewhat more relaxed pace in my walk to work. Normally, I spend this time thinking about whatever happens to be on the top of my mind that day. Today, I just pause to admire South Park around Christmastime.

The town is cheery, for the most part. The snow is packed onto the sidewalk, just like normal for this time of year. Christmas trees are going up in the planters that occupy the corners downtown. Fully decorated and lit, little star on top and all. The middle school and high school crowds are packing into the shops, looking for presents for their friends.

I haven't seen a Christmas tree in my house since my Freshman year in High School. I haven't had what anyone would consider a proper Christmas since then either. My past three Christmas presents have been a scarf, a wool cap, and a deck of playing cards. We eat Christmas dinner at Church, with all the welfare families. I don't speak to anyone, like usual.

With a pathetic sigh, I walk into Jumpin' Java and head behind the counter, much to the relief of Greg, as the after-school rush is just beginning. He retreats to the back room to start crunching numbers, or whatever it is he does during the five hours I'm working my ass off.

"Welcome to Jumpin' Java, are you ready to order?" I recite for the million and first time, grabbing a pad as Token Black approaches the counter.

"I'll have a Mocha Cappuccino with extra whipped cream, a dash of hazelnut, a dash of cinnamon, and the chocolate syrup, with two biscottis," the dashingly handsome black teen says, as I hurriedly check off boxes on the pad before inputting the order into the cash register.

"Six ninety-three," I say, and scowl when Token presents me with a $100 bill.

"We don't take anything over a fifty," I say, deepening my scowl and pointing at the notice affixed to the counter. "Do you have a twenty or something?"

Token returns my scowl before pulling out a checkbook and scratching out a check to Jumpin' Java for $6.93, tearing it out angrily and thrusting it at me. I take it, scowl deepening, and record that Token has paid for the beverage I'm about to go make.

Taking an empty cappuccino cup, I line the bottom with chocolate sauce before filling it with cappuccino, squirting a double helping of whipped cream atop the liquid, and sprinkling hazelnut and cinnamon powder over that, before glazing more syrup over top, snapping on a lid and spiking a straw into it. Setting it on the counter, I grab a piece of wax paper and snatch two biscottis out of the display case and present them to Token.

"Enjoy," I mutter, as the next customer steps up to the counter.

This is pretty much how it goes for the next three hours. I spend fifteen minutes arguing with someone over the fact that we don't accept credit cards or non-local checks. He then leaves in a huff, and I see him head down the street to Harbucks. Eh, fuck him. The rest of the customers are generally decent, despite the fact that they all have a penchant for handing out ridiculous orders. Some little freak orders a double-hazelnut half-caf latte with out soy cream and imperceptible amounts of chocolate, cinnamon, and paprika, of all things.

At around seven, Greg comes out of the back room after I have another argument with a customer about payment that works me up so badly that I stop abruptly in mid-rant, throw my hands in the air and actually scream for him.

It went something like "Well, why won't you take money?" "We DO take money!" "But you won't take MY money." "Your bill's too large!" "Money's money, you twit!" "GREG!!!"

Anyway, Greg comes out, placates the angry asshole, makes him his coffee, and comes over to me.

"Take a break, Stan," he says, laying a hand on my shoulder. "I think it's time we turned off the elevator music, don't you?"

I smile. "Delilah?"

He nods. "Delilah. Got any new stuff for us?"

"A couple," I reply. "I haven't really had a lot of time to write and practice lately, with finals on the way."

"I'm sure you'll be fine," Greg says, turning me around and gently pushing me around the corner of the counter. Taking a deep breath to try and calm myself down, I walk over to the little stool next to which rests my pride and joy, my guitar. Delilah was the first thing I bought with the meager savings I get after all the bills are paid. Other teens would have bought a cell-phone or an iPod or something shiny and flashy, but I bought Delilah. She's a simple acoustic guitar, but she lets me relieve my miseries through music.

"Hey there, Delilah," I say quietly, picking the guitar up by the neck and getting into playing position. I strum a few chords to make sure I'm in tune, before launching into song.

_The line bends._

_The line holds._

_The line bends._

_The line breaks._

_We cross the line, we run away._

_We hold the line, we save the day._

_Can we do it? No we can't._

_Our hearts aren't in it._

_We run so fast!_

_When all is said and done_

_Can I say that I have won?_

_Or will I have to say I quit,_

_Because I could not cut it?_

_They say the line has to hold_

_They say that fortune favors the bold._

_But I'd rather be a coward, poor and alive,_

_Than a bold rich bastard, attracting the flies._

_Hey, hey, heyyyyy…_

_When all is said and done_

_Can I say that I have won?_

_Or will I have to say I quit,_

_Because I could not cut it?_

_Would you rather I die?_

_Would you prefer I lie?_

_Tell me what you would like_

_From me … tonight._

I like singing. This new song is a bit on the darker side, lyrics-wise, and the chords give it a strange dichotomy. It's a bit harder, though, to play dark chords on an acoustic guitar. Even so, I would never give up Delilah for an electric model that would let me modify the tone and play harsher. I'll stick with her, because I don't do a lot of original writing.

"Anybody want to hear anything?" I ask. I do a lot of covers. From Jon Bon Jovi and Bruce Springsteen to Green Day and U2, I know a few songs from most of the popular ones. I even learned a few country songs out of necessity in this redneck ass-end of nowhere.

The first one is from a girl in a cowboy hat, and is for Kenny Chesney. Disgusted, I sigh and launch into "Don't Blink," one of his newest. After that, I do some Johnny Cash and some Garth Brooks before someone finally gives me some relief and asks for some Bon Jovi. I spend the rest of my shift playing song after song, with only one more original composition in the mix.

At nine, the last customer shuffles out of the café, tossing a dollar into my guitar case as he passes. I spend a few minutes winding down, just playing random chords before I stop, scoop the money out of the case and replace Delilah in her safe little niche. Tonight I made an extra fifteen bucks. Sighing, I stuff the money into my pocket and head back around the counter to get my coat and bag.

"I'll see ya tomorrow Greg," I say, sliding on my coat and hefting the bag over my shoulder.

"Bye, Stan," Greg says, and I head out into the cold Colorado night.

This, this pathetic, harried, overly stressful existence is my life. It's my life for the next eight months. Well, maybe only the next five. I may head to Boulder early to take summer school classes, get a head start on my gen. ed. requirements so that I can start in the fall taking a few introductory classes in my major. I'm thinking about environmental studies. It's my kind of thing, behind veterinary medicine, but I can't afford vet school, so environmental studies it is. I may try and work my way through law school, but that's something for later.

Walking home takes about twenty minutes from downtown where I work. Tonight, the outdoor temperature is an even zero degrees Fahrenheit. I can see this on the thermometer on the bank across from the café. It'll be probably around ten in my room. Assuming I make it home…God, it's freezing out.

A car horn sounding startles me, and I shield my eyes when I'm illuminated by headlights, which fade as the car pulls alongside me.

"Figured you'd want a ride home tonight," Dad says, opening the passenger-side door. "Your mom's broken out the hot-water bottles and the electric blankets, and she'll have cocoa ready for you with your casserole. You don't have any homework tonight, do you son?" he asks as I get in the car.

"Did it all in study hall," I say. "Just a couple of trig worksheets and an outline for Civics. I'll have a paper due next Monday, so you're gonna need to call the gas company on Friday to give us our monthly fill."

Dad nods. "I'll write it on my schedule. You're going to make the usual this week, right."

"Yeah," I reply. "250 gallons worth."

"Alright, I'll tell them," Dad says, turning up the heater in the car and allowing me to un-numb the nerves that were frozen by the ninety seconds I spent outside.

The radio plays country music quietly and I wilt inside silently. I hate country music. It's all about whiskey and cowboys. I've tried whiskey, and cowboys are idiots. Especially the Dallas Cowboys, because they won't shut Terrell Owens up. Whiskey makes me want to shove a fire extinguisher down my throat. Why do all these idiots like country music?

By the time we arrive home, I'm more than ready to run inside, cram some hot food and drink down my throat, run take a hot shower and bury myself in blankets. I manage the first, drop my bag down at the foot of the stairs, and head into the kitchen, where the oven door is open, spewing a small amount of heat into the room. My mom pulls a plate and a cup out of the microwave and hands me a fork, allowing me to dig in to my supper – chicken casserole, with a mug of cocoa to drink.

In the interests of not freezing to death, I finish quickly, bid Mom and Dad goodnight, hasten from the kitchen, watching my breath freeze as I grab my bag and run upstairs to my room, repeating my quick undressing and grabbing my shower materials ritual from the morning and running to the bathroom, where the water can't heat up quick enough. Most people would never shower in water this hot. It's scalding, really. You could fill the tub and put eggs in it and they would hard-boil. But for me, it's necessary, so that I can keep warm for the trip back down the hallway.

This I do, and jump into my longjohns and sweatpants and thermal undershirt and sweatshirt and baseball socks, before sliding underneath the mountain of covers and blankets that keeps me warm. A stocking cap accompanies the ensemble tonight, and I sleep with my hood up, but at least I sleep.

I know my life sucks. But it's going to suck through the winter, and the spring, and even though I'll get away from it this fall, it'll still suck when I come home for Christmas. Or any time I come home.

I hate my life.

**-.-**

**Notes: OK. I now know my schedule for major assignments for the rest of the semester. I have a five-page analytical paper due 8 November, another due 15 November, and a ten-page research paper due 29 November. I might eke out another update to this sometime before Thanksgiving, plus one Thanksgiving week, but I doubt it. So, I hope this update will sate you until then.**

**And, I know the song sucks. I blame my British Literature class for making me read war poetry for the past two weeks.**

**Phoenix II**


	3. At School I

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See Prologue**

**Summary: Stanley has a bad day.**

**-.-**

_At School I_

**-.-**

Have I ever said that I hate school? Because I do. I hate school. I can't wait for May to end so I can graduate and get the fuck away from here. I doubt I'll ever come back. I don't really have any reason to visit "good old SPHS" when/if I visit home from college.

The place sucks. It needs a paint job and new lockers, and new teachers, and a lot of other new things that it'll never get. It could be demolished tomorrow and I wouldn't give two shits. I'd just sign up for online AP classes and teach myself from home for my last semester.

Today, though, my reasons for hating school are simple. For the first time in three years, I opened my mouth in class. It wasn't because I was called on, at least, not the first time. The first time I simply muttered "Ethan Allen" when my History teacher asked who had been the leader of the Green Mountain Boys in the Revolutionary War and none of the other idiots in the class knew who the hell she was talking about.

After that, I was made to answer any question that went unanswered after thirty seconds. Who was the largest signer of the Declaration of Independence? Where did George Washington spend the winter of 1775? What's 5 times 2? What does the acronym ROY G. BIV stand for? John Hancock, Valley Forge, PA, 10, and the colors of the rainbow: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. Have I mentioned that I go to school with idiots?

I can't believe myself. The only thing worse than the fact I opened my mouth without thinking the first time is the way my teachers asked me subsequent times. Like I was a fucking kindergartner or some retard who rides the little short bus. Like "Come on, Stanley, C'mon, boy!" They didn't say that, all they ever asked was "Stan," but their eyes were pleading with me and saying that.

I was followed by whispers in the hallway. Most were probably along the lines of "Oh My Gawd, it speaks!" A couple, though, at least were of a malicious nature. I know this because on my way to English, my last class before lunch, Clyde walked directly into me with an open bottle of water. First, he knocked me to the ground. Second, the bottle sloshed somewhere around half its contents all over my shirt.

I swore, loudly, and moved to get up, but was stopped by Clyde placing his boot on my chest.

"I don't appreciate being made to look like some sorta retard," he said. I glared at him, not really wanting to open my mouth and let out _any_ of the retorts that were buzzing around my skull like angry bees.

"We cool? Just keep your fuckin smart mouth shut, like that, and we'll be fine. Have a great day, assface," he said, emptying the rest of the bottle on my shirt where his foot had been. Had my locker not been on my way to class, allowing me to pick up a sweatshirt and wear it over the drenched garment, I likely would have followed him and beat him upside the head with my Chemistry text.

As it was, I muttered curses to myself as I hurried through the hallways, determined not to be late to English. For reasons unbeknownst to me, we're studying the works of William Faulkner. We're working our way through _The Sound and The Fury_. As far as I can tell, it's a story about a retard and his family set in some place called "Yocknopatiffle" – or something – County, Mississippi. Mr. Quinn is sorta-kinda obsessed with the guy. Faulkner, not the retard. Although, he HAS been focusing on him a lot, so I dunno.

Now, even _he_'s asking questions. Well, he always asks questions, but he's asking questions specifically of me. We're on what's supposedly the hardest part of the book to understand, the second one, and no one else appears to have bothered to read it.

"Mr. Marsh!" Mr. Quinn says. He has a very loud and commanding voice…he probably did theater once upon a time. Given the tightness of the pants he wears, and the fact that he seems to always have some article of pink clothing on, I'd go out on a limb and say he almost CERTAINLY did theater once upon a time.

"Sir?" I answer, wearily.

"On page 112, why do you think Quentin told his father that Caddy's pregnancy was the result of incest between them?" Oh, son of a bitch… That's not even a hard one!

"Um, well, Quentin's pretty much the epitome of a Southern gentleman, so he's really protective of girls and women, especially his little sister. He's sorta horrified when he finds out she got knocked up before getting married, and decided that he would share in her punishment in Hell, so he told his Dad this lie."

"But his father knows he's lying," Mr. Quinn points out, to the snickers of a couple of the kids, taking this as a rebuke of my intelligence.

"But the truth of it's not important, sir," I reply. "What's important is Quentin's motivation TO lie, and that's because he's very protective of his sister. He knows that what eventually happens to Caddy'll happen if their father finds out she got knocked up by someone before marriage, and probably thinks that he'll think differently if it's a result of promiscuity within the family."

"Interesting thought, Marsh," he replies. "Do you identify with Quentin, perhaps?"

"Would I lie to my parents if my sister got knocked up and say I did it, then get all angsty and jump off a bridge when they disown her? Um…first off, the thought of ANYONE wanting to knock up my sister is just disgusting, and second off, I think you've gotta be pretty dense to throw yourself off a bridge just because you don't like the way the world works."

"So…you're more like Jason then?"

"The cynical one that wants a lot of money? Yeah, I guess so. Of course, when you're in my position, it's pretty hard not to want a lot of money, know exactly what you'd do with it, and especially not to be cynical. Jeez, sir, stop tossing me softballs," I close sarcastically, leaning back and brushing a stray strand of hair away from my face.

The rest of English goes by rather smoothly, in my opinion. After that comes lunch, which usually is the most boring part of my day. A few years ago I was reluctant to enter the cafeteria because of all the whispers that forced me to keep my head down while I shuffled off towards the corner, as far as possible from my former status in the center of the room with all the other cool kids that were my friends.

After a few months, the whispers died down to nothing as my new routine became … well, routine. With the exception of the stray new kid who came over and made an attempt to sit with and befriend me before being dragged off and admonished by his guide, everyone left me alone. I've gotten used to this, like I've gotten used to everything in my new so-called life.

Thus, I'm more than a little disturbed when I'm greeted by a rush of whispers as I enter the cafeteria. I don't know what they think's up with me, and I'm not entirely sure I want to, but all this attention appears to be from the fact that I'm doing things again. I don't want to be doing things, I'm being forced to do things, but they don't understand that.

In the lunch line, I manage to avoid it all, but when I turn away from the counter, I run into Craig this time. I mean this literally, I _run into_ Craig. I turn around and BAM, Craig. And, Craig's lunch tray. Which is covered in puddings, pastas, and salads. All of which find their way onto my sweatshirt, along with my own food, as I fall down again.

"Watch where you're going, genius," he sneers, dropping the tray on my head as he wanders back to the end of the line to get another lunch. I sigh in defeat, rubbing the back of my head as people step over me. None of the teachers that monitor the cafeteria come to my aid, nor do any of the students. By the time I'm able to pick myself up off the floor, there are only ten minutes left in lunch. Just about enough time for me to walk out of the lunchroom, into a Janitor's closet, "borrow" a garbage bag, and package up my probably ruined sweatshirt to make a trip home tonight.

Now down once again to my still-damp T-shirt from the Clyde Incident, I drop the bag off in my locker before heading to P.E. At least maybe it'll dry out in the arid atmosphere that is the locker room, while I change into a plain white T-shirt and J-Mart shorts.

I'm up in the gym before anyone else even enters the locker room. Coach gives me a funny look before marking me down in the attendance book and telling me to run three laps around the gym. Nodding, I start in on it, and I'm nearly done when the rest of the class starts to file in. Of course, I have to hurdle the legs of Jason, Kevin, and Token before – maybe ten feet from the finish – Cartman comes off the wall to shove me to the ground, sending me sprawling and the rest of the class into raucous laughter.

I can't help it. I get up, steaming mad, and storm over to Cartman.

"What the FUCK was that for, Fatass!"

"Ey! Shut up, poor-boy. You're the clumsy dumbfuck that fell down, not me," he scoffs.

"You shoved me, jackass!" I exclaim.

"Whatever, I so did not," he replies dismissively. My face is burning and I look like the pissed-off emote when he asks "Did any of you guys see me shove the poor kid?" When all of them reply with some variant of "No," I lose it. I snap and punch Cartman in the face, yanking him off the wall and to the ground, where I straddle his fat chest and continue to land blow after blow, flailing and kicking when a pair of strong arms restrain me and haul me off him.

"MARSH!" Coach screams in my ear. "DETENTION!"

"The Fatass shoved me!" I retort. "He started it, give HIM detention!"

"Cartman?" Coach asks.

"He's lying, Coach," Fatass replies. "Poor people can't tell the truth. They're genes don't allow it." He gets more laughs as Coach returns his attention to me.

"Detention, after school," he says, releasing me.

"Um, Coach?" a voice comes from the area where the girls are standing. "Cartman's lying. He shoved Stan while Stan was doing his laps."

"Miss Testaburger, do you have any reason why I should take your word over Mr. Cartman's?"

"We all saw it, sir," the girls say, and I feel a brief sense of … relief, I think is the best way to describe it.

"Cartman, you'll be joining Marsh in detention," Coach says flatly. "Now, all of you, except Marsh, three laps." I take a seat on the bleachers as the rest of the class does their laps. A few of the girls give me small smiles, while all of the guys give me glares like I'm going to get the beating of my life the first opportunity they get.

When they finish, I hop off the bleachers and go jog over to Coach, making sure I'm visible at all times so that none of them can pull anything.

"Dodgeball today, boys and girls," Coach says. "Boys versus girls. Marsh, you'll be playing with the girls." I glare at him as the rest of the boys start laughing. I HAVE to get this fucking hair cut. I fucking HAVE to.

Dodgeball's alright. We don't use hard-rubber balls because the school's worried about lawsuits and all that stuff, but a couple of the balls are old enough to hurt when hit with them. I manage to avoid those, for the most part.

I manage to avoid those, until it's down to me and Fatass for the title. He has both of them, and I only have one of the new foam balls. He winds up and hurls it, and it passes by my deflection attempt and smashes right into my face. I hear a crack of bone from my nose as I fall to the floor for the third time today with a cry, blood flowing down my face.

"CARTMAN GODDAMNIT!" Coach shouts. "You're disqualified. Girls win. Black, get Marsh to the nurse." Token hauls me up and shoves me towards the door. Deciding it's already ruined, I use my T-shirt to try and stop the bleeding until we get to the nurse's office. Once we arrive and the nurse sees the state I'm in, Token is shooed back to the Gym and I'm lain upon a bed while ice is fetched. And a spare T-shirt from the lost and found bin that's my size. Rolling my eyes, I accept both, pressing the ice to my face after I have shrugged into the T-shirt.

I'm not released to class until near the end of the day. The first place I go is my gym locker, to change back into my school clothes. The second is to my locker, to get changed for work. And after that, I make a small alteration to my hall pass and walk out of school ten minutes before last bell, heading downtown.

Greg lets me buy a cup of coffee and a muffin before starting my shift, to try and make up for the lunch I didn't get to eat. The day goes as most days go, with the last hour of my shift devoted to musical exploits, which help somewhat to relieve the stress of the day. This stress is the core result of making a slipup, which is not something I've done in years.

I don't know what the ramifications of this mistake will be. But as I pack up Delilah to take her home to practice some new songs, I know that they made today absolute fucking hell. And if they make the next few days hell…well, I'll just make an attempt to deal with them, just as I've dealt with all the hellish days I've had over the past few years.

I'm getting pretty fucking tired of this shit.

**-.-**

**Notes: Well. Expect this to probably be the last update prior to Thanksgiving. From here on out, I plan to be swarmed with academic papers. The five-page analytic paper due the 8****th**** has been moved back to the 15****th****; unfortunately … the 15****th**** already HAD a paper due for it. So, now I have to double up on that day, with the rest of the month going to researching, writing, and editing my 10-page research paper due the 29****th**

**Sigh.**

**Phoenix II**


	4. At Home I

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See Prologue**

**Summary: Stanley is sad.**

**-.-**

_At Home I_

**-.-**

I think that if there was one thing I would give the few meager possessions I have on this earth for, it would be a friend. Or, hell, just … someone to talk to about my problems. Father Maxi in the confessional comes close, but he's not really a friend. Just another douche that's out to "save my soul."

Right now, I'm more worried about saving my body. The heat cut out again last night, this time only a week shy of a refill thanks to Mom and Dad keeping it the thermostat set at 55 degrees. We had to still wear layers to bed and cover up, but at least it was tolerable during the day.

One thing that's not easy to do when you're freezing to the point of evolving fur is play guitar. You can't wear gloves or mittens while you do so, so your hands freeze. When your hands freeze, you start fumbling with the strings and mess up your chord. Not to mention the bruising from pressing too hard on them.

That's the situation I'm in now. I'm working on adding a few new songs to my ever-expanding repertory. The lyrics are coming out in puffs of air, I'm shivering while I try to strum the correct chords, and as a result, I'm butchering the song.

I've been at it ever since I got back from work three hours ago. I want – need – to learn these songs, to get more tips from people whose requests I'll be able to accommodate, but I can't do it while I'm frozen.

This is where the part about needing a friend comes in. A friend, right now, would be able to provide me with a warm place to practice and help me out. A friend, right now, would give me an outlet to vent all the anger and despair and sadness that flows through my veins as much as it did ten years ago when I went and played Goth. "Life is pain" my ass. Life isn't pain.

No, Life is Agony. The kind of sweet, exquisite agony that comes from being equidistant from both success and failure. From being neither successful nor a complete failure. The rigorous, torturous agony that one goes through in the process of living, trying to escape the mediocrity that is the cause of the agony.

If life is agony, then mine is the textbook case. Not only am I stuck in the middle, I'm stuck there alone. My name is like a four-letter word, never to be uttered in the presence of anyone, ever. I'm a subject that if it comes up, people try to be vague. I'm a subject from which all attention is diverted. A subject they avoid like the plague.

I'm becoming a mime.

The hardest part of this whole ordeal has become the silence. I'm like a Goddamn Puritan child. "Speak not unless spoken to." Since no one ever speaks to me, I can't speak back. I tried speaking to people the first couple of weeks after it became official that my Dad was unemployed.

I wasn't welcome anywhere. Everyone ignored me. There were awkward silences at every lunch table I tried to sit at; everyone was full, even if they had to sit in a way that made them take up two seats.

Now those days are starting back up again, and I'm still without the one thing that could help me through it all: friendship.

It all comes back to friendship. And little things like loyalty and honesty and trust. Things I'd spent years cultivating with Kyle. Manipulative little Jew-rat had me believing that ours was a friendship that would withstand the test of time, only to pretty much force me out of our group when "it" happened.

Of course, once you get thrown out of the group of the most popular kids in school, there's nowhere to go. It's an absolute free fall from the top of the tree straight down to rock bottom. I hit it three hours from Cartman announcing via interruption of Kyle's subtle and gentle speech that I was no longer welcome to hang out with them. The word spread like wildfire, and by lunch, I was in the broken chair in the dark, unlit corner of the cafeteria.

To be honest, though, I appreciated Cartman's honest and blunt speech rather than Kyle's politician-style "Well, you see Stan, we talked it over, and it's nothing personal, but …" runaround. Of course, then he got everything I had. The girl, the stardom, the recognition … all of it. This season he got pre-season first team all-State honors for football. When we won the State Championship, guess who was the MVP? That's right, the all-State running back for the South Park Cows, number 12, Kyyyyyyyyyle Brofloooooooooooooooovskiiiii! I didn't go, though. I had to work that night. Even if I hadn't had that commitment, though, I doubt I could have stomached it.

For a few weeks after my "dismissal," I was almost CERTAIN that Kyle was going to try and find a way to talk to me. That he would stand up to Cartman (who I was certain was behind my removal) and bring me back. That hope dwindled as weeks became months. After three months, I'd largely become as I was until a few weeks ago: the One that No One Must Speak Of. The socially awkward one, who had nothing, who never would have anything, who wasn't ALLOWED to have anything.

I couldn't even have my pride and human dignity. They took that away from me by ignoring me. By treating me as something unworthy of their respect, they made me feel inferior without any direct interference. Their silence spoke volumes. At a time in my life when I needed someone to lean on and confide in, those I trusted to be there for me instead yanked the rug further out from under me and completely prevented me access to anyone to lean on or confide in.

That's why I turned to music. That's why I named my guitar. But Delilah, as much as a lifesaver as she's been, isn't a friend. I need, desperately, some human contact. Some actual "Hey, let's go get a pizza" or "Let's go see a movie just for the hell of it" kind of contact, not "Would you like some extra douchiness with that mocha latte, sir?" I get quite enough of THAT at work.

In the same vein, Greg's not a friend either, no matter how nice and easygoing he is. He's just my boss. I'm about as likely to go see a movie or grab a pizza with him as I am to bring Delilah to school, strut to the center of the cafeteria, go down on one knee, and profess eternal and undying love to Cartman.

Something inside me says that if I could just find SOMEONE to be friends with, everything would be magically better. Another part of me says that there's no way things will ever go back to the way they were. I'll never be rich, Kyle will never apologize for the asshatted way he treated me, and that I should just accept this, go to CU-Boulder and get my degree in Environmental Studies, become a Park Ranger, and live out the rest of my life in solitude in one of those observation posts in national parks.

As much as I wish I could be naïve again and embrace the first half, my life is going slowly and steadily towards the second. I'm going to be alone for the rest of my life, because there's too much bottled up inside for me to be otherwise. I can't even imagine getting married. Can you believe that? It's not because I'm ugly or anything. If I could keep the hair cut, then I'd look twice as attractive, but looks aren't at issue.

It's personality. I'm no longer the optimistic, friendly kid I was in elementary school. I've been turned into a pessimistic, cynical recluse by circumstances and things. I don't have any hope. I don't believe in promises people make. "We'll go on vacation NEXT summer, Stanley." "NEXT month we'll get you a new jacket, dear." "Shame about the Buffs, but they'll SURELY win NEXT week." Promises are worthless. Friendship is worthless, as evidenced by my "friendship" with that traitorous Jew.

What's left, then? If there's no such thing as love, no beauty or truth in the world, nothing to hold on to, what IS there. The solid truth is that there isn't anything in the world worth giving a shit about. It's all just things. At the same time, there's no point in mass suicide, because you'll go to Hell and be miserable for eternity.

I don't want to be like this anymore. But there's no way out of here either. No safe way, anyway. I'm absolutely miserable being here like this. Friendless, penniless, cold, enslaved … I want it to stop. I want an out.

I'm officially out of here in five months. I'm going to hit the trail for Boulder, take summer classes to get a couple of GenEd credits out of the way, and then hit the ground running come Fall. I got my acceptance letter from CU two weeks ago, and it lifted me up just a little bit. It was a lift that I needed.

I bought a calendar after I got the letter. I ripped out months July through December, and started crossing off days until I got to the correct date. It's now the calendar year of my graduation, and I'm torturing myself in yet another way. The arduous, arduous countdown until Graduation has commenced, and it's tearing at me.

I really want things to be different, changed for the better before I leave The Park. I mean, for cryin' out loud, I shared eleven years of friendship and God only knows how many freaky, fucked up experiences with those guys. It's not like I moved away or anything…

At the risk of sounding like I'm beating on a dead horse, I think it's best to stop. My hands are frozen, and Delilah's getting out of tune. I pack her back into her case and slide underneath the covers of my bed, still cold beyond belief. To warm it up and make it habitable for sleep, I slide all the way beneath the covers and exhale a few times. It makes the underside of them warm, and somewhat comfortable to sleep beneath.

The process is repeated with the pillow, and before I know it, sleep is ready to overtake me. To reboot my system for eight hours or so and have me ready to face another fucked up day in my too-fucked-up-for-proper-words life. A life I can at least maybe escape in less than half a year's time now. I can't leave it completely, but I can escape for a while. And the way things are going now, that's better than nothing.

Mole was right. God is a cocksucking asshole who's made my life miserable. Beautiful, merciful faggot indeed. Fucking rat? Damn right he is…

Fuck God. Fuck God, fuck School, fuck Kyle, fuck all those assholes, fuck my parents, fuck the Church, fuck…fuck…

Fuck.

**-.-**

**Notes: Last update before Thanksgiving. And probably last update before December. Given the fact that I have a ten-page research paper due in EXACTLY 11 days! Sheet! And the research component is going to consist of reading psychological crap that's likely going to scar me for life! Sheet! I should have chosen an easier topic than "Are there any parallels between Freudian psychology and Kinsey's sexology?" Without a doubt. Would have cut down a LOT on the reading component. Oh well…nothing left to say but D'OH!**

**Kindly review? I'm starting to feel under-appreciated. Must I resort to bribery, folks?**

…**if so, please tell me in a review lol**

**Phoenix II**


	5. At School II

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See prologue**

**Summary: Stanley can't catch any sort of break.**

**-.-**

_At School II_

**-.-**

I am developing an intimate relationship with the hallways of South Park High School. Every day for the past month I've been knocked on my ass at least once per day. I haven't said a word in two weeks to anyone, just pulled my hood up, lowered my head, and sullenly stalked to class.

Even this won't stop them. I see Kyle every day, almost immediately upon being knocked down. He's got a funny look in his eyes and a scowl on his face. Of course, Mr. High and Mighty, I control pretty much everyone in the school, I could stop or start anything without getting in trouble, does absolutely nothing to stop my abuse.

Nor do I ask him to. That would be perhaps the only way I could further lower and debase myself in this school. And I'm sure that's what he expects from me, him and all his cronies; for me to spend a class break on my knees in front of the most powerful man in the school begging for him to leave me alone.

I'm not going to give the asshole the satisfaction. I keep a tube of IcyHot in my locker now. I'm just going to deal with my aches and pains as they come, and pray to God for some poor new kid to show up.

On top of this constant bullying that Kyle's managing to persuade the school officials to ignore, I'm piling up detentions. For insubordination. Because I refuse to talk in class, in a (thus far) futile effort to stop the beatings. This means I refuse to answer questions teachers direct to me. This means they're getting angry at me and throwing me in detention.

Every once in a while I'll be joined in detention by Cartman or Clyde, the only two of Kyle's posse stupid enough to beat on me in front of teachers Kyle doesn't have classes with. Not that it matters, I still spend my detention deluged in notes that alternate between mocking and threatening. I'm going to be getting another one, if the way Ms. Young is looking to me is any indication.

"Stan?" I look up, and indeed she's looking at me. "I asked if you could tell me who invented the cotton gin."

Well, of course I can. It's Eli Whitney. I learned that in eighth grade. But I can't tell Ms. Young this. Instead, I pull my hood up and lower my head to my desk. I know that she's going to hold me after class, and then she's going to give me a detention after I won't answer her in the midst of an empty classroom.

Sure enough, the next thing I hear is "Stan, see me after class." She then goes off to someone else to get her answer, while I spend the rest of the period staring down at my book, absently flipping through pages.

When the bell rings, I slowly pack up my things and walk up to Ms. Young's desk at the front of the room as everyone else files out, including – according to my peripheral vision – Cartman and Clyde.

"Stan," Ms. Young starts, "why won't you answer me in class?" I give her a glare and set my face into a scowl.

"It's OK to talk, you know, Stan." I shake my head side to side. It's not OK to talk. It won't be OK to talk for five months, when I get away from here, from myself.

"There's no one else here," she says with incredulity. "What are you afraid of?" What am I afraid of? I'm afraid of everything and everyone. Either Cartman or Clyde, or both, are waiting outside that door and listening in. Just give me my detention already and let me head off to Trig, damnit.

"Fine, if you're going to be so difficult, detention it is," she says, writing out the citation and handing it to me. I have to give it to the office before I go to my next class so I can be added to the detention roll. Bullshit, is what it is. I'm caught between a rock and a hard place. Either I talk, and get the shit beat out of me for making the team look like what it is – a collection of talentless dumbasses – by said talentless dumbasses, or I keep silent, still get the shit beat out of me, AND have to go to detention and make up the two and a half hours I miss of work every week on the weekends.

Clutching the citation in my hand, I walk out of the class and am immediately greeted by a swift punch to the gut that has me doubled over and gasping for breath as a fat hand grabs me by my hood and my hair and pulling my head up.

"Fag," Cartman spits. "You keep your faggy little mouth shut, you got that? We can do so much worse to you, Marsh. You keep up your little end of the deal, and we'll keep ours." Yeah, yours, beating me as a _precaution_. Jesus…why?

Why me? Why this? Why won't it all just stop? I nod my assent to receive a shove to the ground from Cartman as his 341 pounds of flab waddle off towards his remedial English class. I spend two minutes gasping for breath before I can get up, clutching my stomach still, heading for the office to drop off my detention notice and heading to Trigonometry, where I silently and sullenly do my in-class worksheet.

This one really hurts. It twinges as I leave Trig for Art, continues whenever I move anything in Art, and English, and Lunch – where I can barely manage to put down my chicken nuggets and mashed potatoes. It twinges during P.E., where Coach is kind enough to bench me. It continues throughout Civics, Spanish, and Chemistry, and has just subsided by the time I enter detention with our latest novel for English.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the pissy little poor emo hippie," Cartman snarls from his seat in the back as I enter. "How's your stomach, fag?"

I grit my teeth and stalk to a seat as far away from Cartman as the room will allow, crack open my book, and start reading, pausing only to wave to signal my presence when the teacher's aide who supervises detention calls my name.

From there, I sit down with my book and begin to read. The book itself is rather easy, but for some reason I can't focus on it. I need to have it read through Chapter Four by tomorrow for a quiz. It's a straightforward assignment, and a book I've read before, but something's just not right about today.

A ball of paper lands in my lap, to snickers from Cartman's direction. Scowling, I unfold it and read a poorly-scrawled note.

"_Fag_," it begins, "_just give in. We all know how much you wanna be Broflovski's bitch. Craig's getting pissy because he can't wait to tape it._"

Frowning, I crumple it up and toss it into the garbage can near my desk, picking up my book again. I wanna be Kyle's bitch? This is very much news to me. I spend about as much time pining over the traitorous kike as I do talking to him: none at all. He might as well be dead, for all that I give a fuck about him.

Craig wants to tape … what? Me groveling in front of Kyle, Kyle making me his bitch, or both? Moreover, what does Cartman mean by "be Broflovski's bitch"? Like … bitch, bitch? "Hike-up-your-ass-so-I-can-buttsecks-you" bitch? No way in hell. Kyle's not gay. He stole my girl and he's got authority over Cartman. If he were gay, neither of those would happen. Especially not the authority over Cartman.

If Kyle were gay, Cartman would have gotten the guys together and ousted Kyle faster than you could say "fag." I'm just as incredulous that Cartman is dumb enough to think I'd like it up the ass. Buttsex is nasty. I'm not saying this as a Catholic; I'm saying this as a normal person. I mean, seriously. Can you imagine the shit – literally, people, shit – that's up there? It's not healthy! All sorts of nasty things are up in there. Full of things your body DOESN'T WANT!

You can get hepatitis, herpes, genital warts, all sorts of STDs and other infections from buttsex. And Cartman thinks I'd subject someone to that? To be at the mercy of whatever nasty things are living up my ass? That could kill someone! I wouldn't wanna be responsible for something like that, especially if it would be preventable. Thus, nobody's getting into MY ass. Ever. I don't dig the buttsmex.

Another note lands in my lap, accompanied by Cartman's chortling. Frustrated, I unfold it to find an incredibly crude drawing of a stick drawing of me on all fours with a stick figure of Kyle – besides the labeling, Fatass made sure to draw a veritable shrub growing from his head – with a cock the size of his stick leg (drawn with remarkable attention to detail, which both does and doesn't at all surprise me) lined up to "fuck me senseless," according to the speech bubble over my head, which also includes me begging Kyle for him to do me.

There is nothing I would like better than to scream at the top of my lungs at Cartman right now. But since the beatings only increase with volume, if I screamed at the top of my lungs, they'd probably break my ribs or something. Instead, I try to work out my rage by destroying the note with extreme prejudice. I rip it in to halves. Then fourths, eighths, sixteenths, thirty-seconds, sixty-fourths, one-twenty-eighths, two-fifty-sixths…and there's not enough left to rip it into five-twelfths. Shooting a glare back at Cartman, I keep him in my gaze as I sweep the pieces into my hand and dump them into the trash.

Shaking my head and still seething with rage, I return my attention to my book. Or, again, try to. There's no fucking way I can concentrate on Bilbo Baggins with Cartman taunting me like this. I would love NOTHING more than to get up and punch his fat face in. I can't though. It's not possible.

I've got to do _something_ though. I can't let them just walk all over me like this. This can't go unchallenged. Unless I stand up for myself, and prove that I'm _nobody_'s bitch. As much as I wouldn't mind for that fucking kike ex-SBF of mine to come down with some crippling and debilitating and deadly illness, I'm not willing to be fucked up the ass to facilitate it. I'd never be able to live it down. So, I'm going to have to be proactive about it. Sure, fine it'll land me in detention again. Or maybe _sus_pension. But there wouldn't be anything that school administration could do to me that would make beating the Fatass just as bad as he does to me every fucking day.

"Stan Marsh?" the TA says, catching my attention. I look up in surprise, catching her glance with a raised eyebrow.

"Your half hour is over. You're free to leave. Eric Cartman, you as well." Oh, this is pretty damn perfect. He lumbers out of the room as I pack my book back up. Cartman closes the door behind him, and I note that it opens outward as I make my way out. I turn the knob, hesitate, and then SLAM the door open. I'm satisfied when it meets an obstruction halfway through with a crunch. Slipping through, I close the door and let Cartman sag to the floor with a bloody face.

"Fucking…fag," he spits, reaching for my leg, but I scoot back to avoid him. "You'll get it, fuckwit, just you wait."

"Oh, shut up, Fatass," I mutter, kicking him in the face, knocking him flat on his back. Re-shouldering my bag, I stalk off to my locker to get changed, before I have to head off to work. The only plus about my probable suspension is the fact that I'll be able to make up for all this lost work and probably not have to work as much on the weekend. And sleep in.

God, I can't wait to get called to the office tomorrow…

**-.-**

**Notes: Well. It's almost December, does that count? So, there you have it. I'm done with almost all my academic work for the semester. I believe another update will be forthcoming within a week of this.**

**The only thing that will delay the next update is a lack of reviews to this chapter. 13 people get emails for this story. 14 people have reviewed it over four chapters. I, personally, am not pleased by this.**

**So.**

**There won't be an update until at least 14 December unless I get at least four reviews for this chapter. Five or six reviews would make me more pleased. But I will settle for four, to make up for the only two I received for last chapter that displeased me greatly.**

**Happy reading (and reviewing!) I'll give you … a cookie, if you leave a signed review or an email address with your anonymous review :D**

**Phoenix II**


	6. At Work II

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See prologue**

**Summary: Stan's horrendous day continues.**

**-.-**

_At Work II_

**-.-**

When Cartman said that I would get it, Lardass apparently was everything BUT joking. Nobody's thrown any punches at me … yet, but just about everything else that could possibly go wrong this afternoon has. On the walk over here I was nearly hit by a record twenty-three speeding cars, had my coat splattered with slush that left stains that are going to take from now to forever to get out, and was used as an escape route by two fighting squirrels. Lemme tell ya: THAT ain't anything CLOSE to fun.

It didn't get any better when I arrived at Jumpin' Java either. Apparently all twenty-three of those cars were headed here: the place is fucking PACKED. I'm not talking amiable chatter with all the tables full, I'm talking rock concert loud and Standing Room Fucking Only.

"STAN!" shouts a beleaguered Gregory from the front counter. "Get your scrawny ass back here right now!"

All conversation ceases. All eyes turn to me. Once I'm properly identified as, indeed, Stanley Marsh, the boy who just totally kicked the ass of Eric T. Cartman, who is also the boy who's the laughingstock of the school, the poor kid the Jew kicked out of his group, the voices all start up again. Only this time, they're not discussing what they want in their house latte.

"Queer!"

"Fag!"

"Poor sack of shit!"

"Hippie!"

"Fucking fucker!"

"Ass master!"

"Emo fucktard!"

"Oh, shut the FUCK up!" I exclaim, making my way around the counter, dropping my bag and shedding my muddy coat.

"Stan, I'm an hour behind on my accounting today. You think you can handle all this?" What a loaded question. Was he not listening? Or is he questioning my ability to be professional and not scream back at the taunting dickheads? Obviously he doesn't know that I had worse from the aforementioned dickheads, and all this shit does is bring back bad memories.

"Of course I can handle it."

"Great. Enjoy yourself." Yeah, whatever Greg. You go play with your numbers; I'll deal with the cock-munching asshatted douches.

"How may I help you," I say tiredly to the first one in line. Somebody I don't recognize by name, so not a senior.

"I'll have a hazelnut mochacino with cinnamon, chocolate, and extra whipped cream," it says from behind the worst emohair I've ever seen. Its hair encompasses its entire head, and is trimmed neatly around the neck, but you can't see its face at all because of the hair.

"Alright," I reply, making sure to check each box on the order form to make sure it can't yell at me for getting the order wrong. "Six-sixty-eight."

The emo thing hands me seven. I give it back its thirty two cents and make its coffee, and hand it over.

Next up is Tweek. Tweek wants the most caffeinated thing I can possibly make: a double cappuccino with four shots of espresso, triple whipped-cream, made with the Colombian blend and garnished with chocolate.

"Seven-thirty-nine," I say, and Tweek has a spaz attack because he forgot which pocket contains his wallet. If I were Tweek, his parents, or Rebecca, I would do everything in my power to make sure Tweek only ever has one pocket.

"Seven thirty nine, Tweek," I say gently.

"GAH! Oh Jesus, Oh Jesus, where is it!? Damn gnomes…I need my coffee! GAAAAAH! WAY TOO MUCH PRESSURE!"

"TWEEK!" I shout, freezing him. "Calm down. Check your back pocket." Hand shaking, he reaches back there and finds it. He opens it, fishes out a ten, and hands it over. I punch it in and pull out his change.

"Two sixty one is your change," I say, handing the money back. "I'll go get your coffee, alright?"

"Kay…" he says, twitching. Since I know it's only a matter of time before he freaks again, I'm unusually quick about getting Tweek his coffee. In between spurts of the Colombian coffee, I insert a shot of espresso, topping it off with the chocolate and whipped cream, slapping on a lid and throwing in a straw and thrusting it into Tweek's waiting hands.

"Next!" Token steps forward.

"How may I help you," I ask darkly.

"Get me a coffee, fuckwit," he spits.

"Plain house coffee?" I ask.

"Yes. Plain house coffee. One cup. To go. Are you retarded or something?" I grimace.

"Seventy-five cents," I reply, instead of haranguing him about his horrible manners. That would be about as pointless as the music he listens to when he wants to "get crunk." He scowls and digs three quarters out of his pocket and slams them down on the counter. I scowl back and drag them back across, tossing them in the register and filling up a Styrofoam cup with coffee. I hand it to Token with a look that clearly communicates "Get lost, asshat."

Some long-haired blonde boy with a douchy accent, a bow tie, and a beret orders a cup of Earl Grey tea and some English Muffins. He pays with a Traveller's Cheque from the Bank of England, for … 20 pounds.

"Don't you have anything in dollars?" I ask.

"I don't think so, no…wait…how many dollars do I owe you?" 

"Five. Even."

"Oh, a fiver…I do believe I have one of those from the last establishment I visited. Hold on a moment," the boy says, fishing through his pocket and pulling out a wrinkled bill bearing the colored visage of Abraham Lincoln and handing it over.

"That's correct, yes?"

"Yes, great. Hang on, let me get your stuff," I mutter, slipping the bill in the register and making his tea. I pull two English Muffins from the display case, grab packets of butter and jelly and hand them over.

"Enjoy," I say, as the boy is pushed out of the way by … oh, fuck, Cartman.

"Fag," he opens.

"What the fuck do _you_ want, Cartman?" I ask, bristling.

"You to shut the fuck up, for starters, faggot," he snaps back. I glare at him. "And after that, I want a triple chocolate, triple cream, Colombian-based mochacino, with extra chocolate on the cream and extra cream on top of the chocolate."

"…You are such a fucking fatass!" I exclaim, punching in his order on the register. "Jesus fucking Christ, lardo!"

"Don't call me fat you stupid poor fag!" he shouts back while the computer tells me his price.

"Ten ninety-nine," I tell him.

"…Are you shitting me?" he asks. "Eleven fucking dollars for a cup of coffee!?"

"No, ten ninety-nine, dumbass. Hand it over."

"This is an _OUTRAGE_!" he exclaims with a hint of his old melodrama, handing over the ten and a one. "This is BULLSHIT!"

"Oh, can it, lardass," I say, pulling a penny from the coin drawer and slamming it down on the counter in front of him. "I'll bring you your fucking drink in a minute." As I go about making it, I can feel his eyes burning into my back, watching my every move scrutinously. The end result is very creamy, very foamy, and chocolaty enough to send a diabetic into a coma. I put a lid and straw on the monstrous concoction, turn around and press it into his fat hands. He scrutinizes the drink itself, and then pushes it back towards me.

"You made it wrong, faggot," he says.

"I did fucking not!" I exclaim.

"I wanted hazelnut coffee!"

"You said Colombian you fucking douche!"

"I did not!"

"You did fucking so!" I start to exclaim, but am cut off by the rest of the store beating me to the punch, in a very tired fashion.

"Oh yeah? Well … I wanted hazelnut powder!"

"No, you didn't," I reply evenly, pushing the coffee back towards him.

"Yeah I did!"

"No, you didn't. Take your damn coffee and go, you're holding up the line."

"Fuck you!" Cartman exclaims, taking the drink and throwing it at me, hitting me in the face and causing it to explode all over me. I've got chocolate and whipped cream on my shirt and in my hair, and my skin is on FIRE from getting drenched in HOT COFFEE!

"You fat son of a _BITCH_!" I exclaim, leaping across the counter and on to his fat self, punching him neatly in the same nose I hit with a doorknob two hours earlier. He falls to the ground with the momentum of my leap and my punch, and I ride him all the way down, landing punches all over his face, his neck, his chest, I MIGHT have hit him in the balls, his gut…

He shoves me off his chest and onto my back, pouncing on me and pummeling me like he does every day. I kick him in his man-tits, pushing him back, then in the head, allowing me to escape from beneath him. I then execute a pile driver, elbowing him in the middle of the spine and dropping him flat on his stomach to the floor, allowing me to pummel his back some more.

As I had that day in Gym class, I'm pulled off Cartman by someone and have my arms pinned behind my back. In blind rage, I continue kicking at him until someone screams my name to shock me back to the present.

"STAN!" That voice belongs to Greg. My boss…oh, shit, I just beat the shit out of a customer. I am toast. Burnt wheat toast. Set-the-toaster-on-fire toast. Toast, in general.

"What the FUCK!?" he shouts, "Was that all about!"

"Take a look at me and I'll give you three guesses," I retort in my best snarky tone. He stops and lets his eyes wander up and down.

"If you tell me he threw a cup of scalding hot coffee on you…"

"Nope, not a cup of scalding hot coffee," I reply in false glee. "A scalding hot triple chocolate, triple cream, Colombian-based mochacino, with extra chocolate on top of the cream, and extra cream on top of the chocolate."

"…and he threw it on you."

"Thank you, Captain Gregory Obvious," I say, rolling my eyes.

"So you beat his face in, pile-drove him, beat the back of his head in, and kicked him in the face?"

"Yep," I reply. "I don't get paid enough to throw coffee back at him."

"Go home," he says, and I look at him funny.

"Home. Go get cleaned up and looked at…your face is probably burned. I'll see you tomorrow after school."

"I'm not fired?"

"He started it," Greg says with a wink. "Go on; get out of here, while they're all still stunned."

I hasten to obey, stepping on Cartman for good measure while I cross the store to retrieve my hat, coat, and bag. As I walk out into the biting cold and it touches my burning flesh, I wince. This is all sorts of not good. I end up walking home backwards, so that I don't have the wind in my face, but it doesn't change things much.

God fucking damn that Cartman. First he made me do something that's going to get me suspended, and now he's going to make me have to come in early as hell this weekend and work until close to make up all my hours. With a burned face that's going to force me to carry around a bottle of aloe vera gel for a week or two. Mom's going to have to throw my uniform top into the wash as soon as I get into the house; well, as soon as she's done mother-hen-ing me about my scalded face.

God.

Fucking.

Damn him.

**-.-**

**Notes: Alright. First: I know this is a little over a week, but I had like…ZERO motivation to write this after finals. After Friday and Saturday's writing, I had a grand total of: 335 words. Yeah.**

**Second. Holy. Fucking. Shit. NINE reviews for last chapter! has a spasm of joy You guys! I LOVE YOU ALL!!**

**Now…can we NOT have a major recession for this chapter? Let's try and keep a minimum of five comments per chapter…make me nice and happy, and get you updates on a semi regular basis,**

**Third: the next update for this is truly up in the air. I'm heading home on Tuesday, back to the most Craptastic Internets in the Civilized World, and I don't know what my work schedule for break will be, so… I will leave you on a VERY general note and say that this fic WILL be updated again before Christmas :D**

**Happy Hannukah, everyone!**

**Phoenix II**


	7. At Home II

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See prologue**

**Summary: Stan has a talk with Randy.**

**-.-**

_At Home II_

**-.-**

The two weeks following the incident at Jumpin' Java were fairly uneventful. I got handed a three day suspension for the incident after detention, and spent it at work, allowing me to have the weekend off. I spent my weekend moping around in my room, working on scholarship applications. I had won an academic excellence scholarship to Colorado, but that along with my federal grants would pretty much cover just tuition. I would need additional scholarships to cover room and board, books, and a meal plan. Another five grand that I would need to acquire through some sort of means, and scholarships would definitely be preferable to running up a $20,000 or so loan debt before I leave college.

I wrote out fifteen applications, paired them up with fifteen letters of recommendation from one of my teachers, and mailed them off. The rest of the weekend had been spent watching my face peel. I'm looking more-or-less normal again, a little bit more than less. I've been handling myself at work, and Greg's been making excuses to serve Cartman on those rare occasions he drops by.

You would probably think that after what I did to Fatass, people would be congratulating me at school for finally "growing a pair" and doing what should have been done to him years ago. Instead, things went back to normal. I walked through the halls on pins and needles on my first day back from suspension, but nobody even looked twice at me. Nobody said a word to me. I sat in the very back of all my classes and was ignored by my teachers. Nobody disturbed my passage through the lunch line, or my trip to the outskirts of the cafeteria to eat my meal in my little dark corner.

It was both relieving and disconcerting. And, why I'm hesitantly looking into the living room from the midway point on the stairs. Dad's sitting in his chair, and I'm hoping he can give me some advice, maybe, on how to deal with this pressure of having no fucking clue when your next beating is coming or where it's coming from. This pressure that comes from being the center of attention for a week and then ignored like the elephant in the middle of the living room within three days.

"Dad?" I ask hesitantly, coming down the rest of the stairs and entering the living room proper.

"What is it, Stanley?" Dad asks, muting the TV.

"I'm like…under some stress, and I was wondering if you had any ideas."

"Oh. Sit down, Stanley," Dad says, and I take a seat on the couch.

"What's the matter, son?"

"You remember a couple weeks ago? Where I-"

"Where you got your face scalded by that fat asshole you used to be friends with?" Dad asks.

"Uhh, yeah, that," I say, kinda uncomfortable.

"Yeah, what about it?"

"Well, I beat the living shit out of Cartman," I say, before being interrupted again.

"Good for you."

"Thanks, but…I mean, they've beaten me worse for much less, and they've totally ignored me for this. I'm worried about when and where they're going to get me back."

"…And this is stressful to you?" Oh, for fuck's sake, Dad!

"…Yeah? I mean, I'm already accepted to college, I'm a lock for at least half the scholarships I applied for, work's fine, just…this."

"Stanley, you truly don't know the half of it when it comes to stress. I was in a boy band, remember? One of the most stressful professions known to mankind. With all the memorizing of the songs, the choreography, the grueling rehearsals, recording sessions that could last 36 hours, and don't even get me STARTED on the fangirls…" he says.

"…So you were in a boy band, and it was stressful. That means you can give me some advice, right?" I ask, hopefully.

"You're 18, right, Stanley?" he asks, and I'm caught off-guard momentarily.

"Y-yeah, I turned in October, remember?"

"Alright then, just checking. Stan, the best way to deal with your type of situation is by utilizing substances designed with the express intent of suppressing negative emotions and promoting a mellow feeling." Jesus Christ, he's not suggesting what I think he's suggesting, is he?

"Dad? Are you…suggesting I start taking drugs?"

"Drugs? No…well, they'd be best, but there isn't anything close to a steady supply around here. Not much LSD in the world after San Francisco got destroyed, and all the wetbacks down by the U-haul are clean. There used to be a good supply of Mary Jane down in the ghetto, but that fire that gutted the place last year took it all out, so you'll have to resort to the two classics: alcohol and nicotine."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I ask, staring at him as he offers me a plastic bag containing a fake ID (thankfully not as bad as identifying me as McLovin, a 25-year-old Hawaiian organ donor), a can of Coor's Light, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter.

"I've had this ready for you for the past two years. I must say, I'm amazed at your ability to handle bad situations like ours."

"Dad…seriously. I don't think I should be smoking or drinking…I mean, the last time I smoked, I burnt down the school…"

"Stanley, it's all in the past. If you want to reduce your fucking stress quickly, you'll take this, say 'Thanks, Dad,' and go to your room. If not, just walk away, Stan."

Sighing, I take the bag. "Goddamnit," I say, standing up. "Thanks for the 'advice,' Dad…"

"You're welcome, son. Anytime." And then the man un-mutes the TV and laughs outrageously at a lame joke on the old-time TV shows channel. I look with apprehension at the contents of the bag in my hand and trudge up the stairs to my room, where I lock the door.

To be careful, I go over to my bed and crack the window. I don't have an ashtray, so I'll have to tap the excess out the window tonight, but tomorrow I'll nick a can from the recycling and use that.

Remembering the Rob Reiner incident back in fourth grade, I cautiously test the lighter a couple times, producing sparks at first until the butane catches and produces a flame. I take a cigarette from the pack, stick the proper end in my mouth, strike the lighter again, and touch it to the end of the cigarette. The cigarette couldn't be happier to burn, and the nicotine and tar and carcinogens and hallucinogens contained within it couldn't be happier to make their way into my body. I take a couple cautious puffs, to be certain I'm doing it right, and then a long drag. I feel warmer, instantly, then cold again as I exhale.

"Hidey lidey lidey, hidey lidey lay," I murmur to myself, sitting down on my bed and tapping a particularly long ashen section of the cigarette out the window. "So folks can get a breaky from their stressful lidey lives and relaxy with the cigarettes …" I sing, in tune with the song sung by the workers at the factory I visited with my old friends, the ghetto boy, the kike, and the lardass.

Humming it to myself, I continue to puff away on the cigarette, the resulting smoke flying out my window alongside the ashes from the used-up parts of the mini-cigar as I finish it. When I do, I fling the butt out the window and close it, walking over to the plastic bag and taking out the Coor's Light. Nicotine is something I've been exposed to before first hand. Alcohol, on the other hand, is something I've never had in large quantities. I have an ounce of wine when I take Communion, but I've never had a beer before. Mom has been insistent on that. She won't even let Dad make beer-battered chicken or fish for dinner.

Cautiously, I pop the tab on the can and take a drink. It tastes…funny. Kind of like drinking plain carbonated water when the soda machine at the restaurant is out of Sprite but you can't really tell so you fill up your glass anyway and do a spit take when you take a sip of it and there's no way in fucking hell it's actually Sprite. That's sort of like what this tastes like. Except it's a little sweeter than carbonated water. There aren't really any words to properly describe what it tastes like.

I've had Health in High School. I got the spiel about why you should neverever smoke, neverever drink, neverever shoot heroin, neverever do meth, or cocaine, or LSD, or marijuana, or fuck someone who you don't fuck regularly, don't use prostitutes, or "escort services," don't have a wide stance, don't be a fatass, cheezburgahs are bad, so are cookies, cake, potato chips, Pepsi, Coke, roundhouse kicks to the face, standing downwind of Terrance and Phillip, Mexicans, hoboes, Communists, Chinese Dodgeball players, and dogshit tacos. Like any good teenager, I drowned out the teacher, nodded my head and said yes. I didn't PLAN on smoking or drinking…but I think they may come in handy.

Smoking made me warm. Drinking…well, drinking's kinda making me light-headed. But I assume this just because I've never had any before. With time, I'll get better at it. Maybe I'll be able to do kegstands eventually. Or Beer Pong. Or drinking games, like "Every time Mackey says M'kay, take a drink." Yeah…with time and tolerance, I'll be able to hold my liquor. But to do that, I'll have to get my hands on a lot more of this stuff. I'd be able to buy cigarettes on my own, but for alcohol…yeah, I guess that's why Dad made me this fake ID. It's pretty damn good, too. I wonder who he knows at the DMV…

Of course, I guess it's just in case. If I asked nicely enough, the guys at the liquor store would probably sell me stuff. I could just tell 'em it was for my Dad and they'd give it to me, sure as hell. The bartender would take a little work and "pliance" in the form of twenty bucks or so, but he'd probably serve me too. They all know I'm a mature kid who's going through a rough patch in his life. I look like I'm 21 anyway. When I go to Denver to watch the Rockies (once a summer, and I pinch pennies for two months to do THAT), the concessions people all look at me like I'm a crazy Mormon because I only ask for Coke instead of beer, because they think I'm 21.

So…hmm…tomorrow's an early release day from school. I'll get out at 1, and I'm only scheduled to work until 4, because Greg has an exam in this night class he's taking, so I'll have plenty of time to head down to the liquor store, pick up some cigarettes and beer. I'll have to dip into my Christmas fund to do it, but I'll just get Mom some aromatherapy candles and Dad some retarded print socks. Ten bucks, and I'm good to go as far as parents are concerned. Shelley will get a small bag of caramels, because she's been fucking addicted to the damn things ever since she got her braces off. Something about being "determined to make up for all my lost childhood." Whatever. So that's another three bucks, and I'll use the other thirty-seven in my holiday savings to feed my new addictions.

I don't care WHAT Lardass and the Kike say, I'm a fucking genius. And with 10-minute breaks between classes, I'll even have time to light up at school should the need arise. I'll just be careful not to throw the damn thing into a dumpster this time. Spiking it into the snow ought to suffice for extinguishing it, if I'm in danger of being caught. I'll go for a smoke break once in a while, and carry a small can of body spray along with me to mask the scent. I'll get some really pungent AXE to piss them all off, especially the Jew. Jewboy HATES AXE, especially the Essence blend. I can't use TAG, because then I'll be inundated with hot chicks, and that'll defeat the purpose of relieving stress. Instead, I'd have more, because I'd have to worry about all the jocks beating on me for "lookin' at their wimmin funny."

Fucking morons.

**-.-**

**Notes: There you go. This chapter took me five days of half-effort to produce, and I didn't even have any inspiration on what to do with it until I remembered the episode "Butt Out" and was able to get my hands on the transcript for it. Once I got that, this afternoon, I was able to go from 996 words to about 2k in a little over an hour.**

**Anyway, there was a slight regression from the nine the chapter before last, but the five I got was still a pretty acceptable count. We can keep it up, yes?**

**Next chapter, we'll see Stanley at school again. Hopefully, that one will be up by New Years. Next week's going to be just a TINY bit hectic for me, as you might be able to imagine.**

**Merry Christmas/Kwanzaa/whatever,**

**Phoenix II**


	8. At School III

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See prologue.**

**Summary: Stanley returns to school following his habit development.**

**-.-**

_At School III_

**-.-**

Have you ever had the feeling that you were untouchable? That nothing bad could ever possibly happen to you, and that you wouldn't end up like Achilles? That you could just walk through life as if you'd been coated in Teflon? That you were like Tony Blair without the douchebaggery?

That's how I feel now. I feel…cool, I think. Not cool as in chilly, cool as in popular. Like I'm walking through school in a leather jacket and aviator sunglasses. At least, until I actually get INTO the school, and am met with the age old insults. My imaginary sunglasses go with the first "HEY POVERY-CASE!!" My mental leather jacket is ripped from me when a group of Freshman rabbit-punch me in the spine and shout in my ear "WELFARE QUEEN!"

The Teflon, though, steps up to replace this. When they call me a fag for the ponytail I've bundled my hair into, I scowl and move along. None of the rest of the insults even reach my ears. I get to my locker and pull out the books for my first two classes. Today's schedule's rather strange, requiring me to collect two classes worth of books at a time, because we only get enough of a break to visit our lockers after every other period on early release days. Period One, three minute break, Period Two, six minute break. Repeat this for Periods Three and Four, break for Lunch, repeat for Five and Six, and Seven and Eight, and then leave.

The best thing is, I'm going to get through it. Just rush through my lunch and go have a smoke. Today's just a hamburger anyway. Hell, I could grab it and an apple and wander out even sooner. I think I just may do that. Eat the burger and the apple on my way outside, and that way I'll have spare time to light up and get all the way through the cigarette.

"Fag," Cartman greets me on my way into History.

"Go to Hell, Lardass, I'm not in the mood," I bite out, stalking into class past a flabbergasted Cartman.

After class, he pins me to the wall.

"What the hell was that about, Marsh? You think you can talk to me?"

"Yeah, actually, I do," I reply, squirming out of his grip. "Now get the fuck out of my way, I already told you I'm not in the mood for your bullshit." I brush past him, knocking him out of my way.

"THIS ISN'T OVER, HIPPIE!" he shouts after me. "I'LL GET YOU!"

I ever so calmly extend my middle finger and hold my hand up so that he can see the signal. I don't even turn around. I told him, I'm not in the mood. I'm not, I won't be, and everyone knows I can beat the shit out of him whenever I so choose.

His sputtering follows me all the way to Math, where I grin through the entire lesson on polynomial functions. I've won. For the first time in three years, not only did I stand up to Cartman, I bested him. Oh, he's gonna be PISSED!

"Marsh!" my teacher snaps.

"Yes sir?"

"Stop daydreaming with that goofy grin on your face and give me the answer to the problem on the board!" To emphasize his point and to indicate which problem, he smacks a meterstick on the board. OK…f(x) x3 8x – 13, solve for x. y x3 8x – 13…y 13 x3 8x…take the cube root of both sides…3x the cube root of y 13…

"X equals the cube root of y plus thirteen, divided by three," I answer. The teacher scowls and moves on, without even bothering to tell me if I'm right or wrong. Then again, I'm not really listening to him anyway, so he might have without me knowing it.

Art passes by without anything of real consequence happening. We never do anything in Art on shortened days. We walk into the room to find drawing paper laid out at our tables, with charcoal and coloured pencils next to them. Our teacher is reading a shitty romance novel at her desk and tells us to "let our creativity roam free." I'm not kidding, she seriously says that.

And the guys call ME a hippie.

Whatever. I pick up a red coloured pencil and start doodling. Scribbles and squiggles, pick up the green pencil, repeat. I'm not even paying attention to what I'm drawing. Randomly, I discard the green pencil and pick up an orange one. This one turns into a rectangle…and two smaller rectangles are attached to it. This shape is followed by the discarding of the orange pencil and picking up a darker green. This darker green becomes two rectangles attached to the bottom of the orange shape, and I get a peach color next and shade in a circular shape between the red mess and the orange shape. Then I reach for the charcoal, sharpen the edges of everything, draw an angle on the circle, an oval beneath it, and two circles adjacent to it. Small rectangles on the orange shape, along with a single line bisecting it vertically, and coloring in the shoes. I pick up a white pencil and color in the circles on the peach shape, followed by grabbing the lighter green pencil again and drawing smaller circles in the white circles in the peach circle.

Pausing, I survey what I've drawn. It looks like a person. A very familiar-looking person.

The bell rings, and I head off to English, wondering why the Hell I drew Kyle as he was when he was eight years old. That could potentially mean … I don't even know. One thing's for sure, I'm not going to let anyone see it. I crumple it up and put it in my pocket. I'll burn it when I go for my smoke at Lunch. I've got more important things to concentrate on.

"Quiz!" Mr. Quinn announces as soon as the bell rings. "It's on your desks; you have until the end of the period to get it done."

Things like that. A thirty question quiz about The Hobbit. Five of the questions are short answer, so I decide I'll knock them out first. And I'm glad, because the first asks me why Gandalf keeps appearing and disappearing. Which is a toughie, and has plenty of space allotted accordingly. I ponder for a moment before writing: "Because he wants to. Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger." I'm betting I get points for cleverness and originality. The others'll come up with stupid-ass reasoning using plenty of in-text citations and not have any time to answer the rest of the questions. I can't be bothered to do that. Besides, mine'll be closer to the truth, and will – most importantly – amuse Mr. Quinn.

The fill-in-the-blank section is incredibly easy. Mostly just names and places, with one situational. I grin as I hear muffled curses from my classmates, who are both struggling with the names and places, and realize that they're running out of time. I make sure my information is correct and that I have answered all the questions, and lay the quiz face-down on my desk, waiting for the bell.

When it rings, I walk with my head held high towards the lunchroom, mouth set and ears stopped. I need to just grab my food and go outside. I need to get outside and light up. I need to light up and set that fucking picture on fire, disintegrate it. It'll smell terrible because of the burning colours, but Goddamnit, I need to the get the fuck rid of it. If I don't, someone'll find it and give it to Cartman, who'll call it proof of my desire for Kyle to fuck me senseless.

That's the last thing I need. More Goddamned _whispers_. About me again, but instead, about how I "take my cock." Do I like it cut, uncut? Long, short, fat, thin? NONE of the above!! I don't "take cock"! My interest in male anatomy begins and ends with my interest in my own!

"What can I get you?"

Huh? Oh, right, lunch.

"Just a burger and an apple," I say. They put it on a tray and hand it to me. I grab a carton of milk and stalk out. I leave the lunchroom with the same glare I wore entering it, food in hand, much to the confusion of everyone in the room. I step through mostly empty hallways, earning the occasional strange look from a teacher as I cram my burger into my mouth, washing it down with the milk and pocketing the apple for later. I get outside and I lean against the back wall of the school, fishing in my pocket for my cigarettes and my lighter. Finding both, I take out one, stick it between my lips, and light it up, taking a relaxing drag.

While I have my lighter out, I dig out the crumpled drawing of Kyle from my pocket and unfold it. I want to watch him burn, since he can't go to Hell, being a Jew. I want to watch him burn. From his shoes up to the top of that stupid-ass hat. I want him to pay in effigy.

I flick the lighter, grinning as the flame catches the bottom of the paper. I'm glad I left enough room at the top of the sheet to drop it after it Kyle's image is completely burned. I smile as the flame passes his feet, and scowl at the grin on his colored face. Taking my cigarette in my spare hand, I tap the ash off, and press the flaming end to Kyle's face. The color burns away, followed by the paper itself. I return the cigarette to my mouth and watch the picture burn. It goes quickly, and I discard the remnants along with my cigarette butt and head back inside.

I walk to the Commons area, eating my apple. When the bell rings, I discard the core in the nearest trashcan and stop by my locker to spray myself down with Axe. After I do that, I grab my book for sixth period and head down to P.E. Since it's a short day, we're just playing Dodgeball again, and I'm relieved to see that Coach has removed from inventory the old balls that broke my nose. Cartman, upon noticing the same, voices his disappointment. I grin. Fatass is mine.

I tell the girls this (I still haven't gotten a haircut. It's on my to-do list as soon as I get some spare cash) and they look at me uncertainly.

"It'll be fine! You just worry about the rest of them; I'll take care of Lardass."

"Well, if you say so, Stan…" Rebecca says, still uncertain.

"Don't worry about me," I say, and several of them giggle. Oh great, Hero Worship…

Coach blows the whistle and, as a class, we rush the line of balls in the center of the gym. I manage to grab two and immediately knock Clyde out of the game before retreating back to my line. We managed to take out half the guys, leaving Fatass, Kike, Ghettoboy, and Craig. They got Wendy and Bebe, much to the chagrin of the latter, but aside from them, we're intact.

"Come and get it, Fatass," I mutter, grabbing a stray ball and getting into a defensive position as Cartman and Jew send Kenny and Craig at us, both dual-wielding. They charge forward, and the other girls squeal and cower, allowing Kenny and Craig to pick them off. I fire off my two as they release, nailing them both and sending them to the sidelines. There's an abundance of balls on my side, and I pick up two while I listen to Cartman and Kyle argue about which one gets the "honour" of taking me out.

"Jew, I'm so seriously pissed off at him. I want him!"

"Fatass, Stan's MINE."

"No he's not, you assrammer!"

Grinning, I sneak across my lines and creep towards them on the opposite sideline. Just like the old days, they're completely engrossed in their argument, and don't even notice my approach. I take all the time in the world to line up my shot. I let it fly, and nail Kyle right between the shoulder blades, interrupting his argument as Coach blows his whistle.

"Broflovski! Out!" Kyle looks at me in shock. I smirk and give him a little wave goodbye as he fumes and walks over to the sideline. Now it's just me and Cartman.

"Hello, hippie," he says.

"Hello, lard-o," I reply, picking up the ball I nailed Kyle with as it rolls back to me. "Are you just going to stand there all day or are you going to try to take me out?"

"You're just lucky I don't have my good balls today."

"You're just lucky to have balls period, let alone good ones, with all those steroids you took when you were younger."

"FUCK YOU!" Cartman shouts, flinging one of his balls at me. I easily deflect it towards the guy's sideline.

"Oh, a little touchy are we? Maybe because you can't get anyone to touchy you because your cock's the size of my little finger and your balls are the size of peanuts?"

"SHUT UP, FAG!" Cartman growls, throwing another ball that I easily deflect. I'm going to wait to throw my first until he bends down to re-arm.

"Brilliant, moron. You're defenseless. Short pudgy arms like you've got, you have no hope of catching my throw. You know I'm accurate too, because I'm a pitcher."

"Catcher," Cartman sneers.

"No, Pitcher. Get your fat head out of your fag gutter."

"You can't get me out, hippie."

"Watch me, Lardo," I smirk, and aim, winding up and releasing my ball that strikes him right in mid-thigh, just out of his reach. Coach blows his whistle again.

"Cartman, Out! Girls win!" I turn around to address my team as they sit on the sidelines.

"I told you so." They all jump up and give me little hugs as Coach dismisses us back to the locker rooms. Cartman's glaring daggers at me, but I'm not at all concerned. I've gotten him TWICE today.

I'm BACK, baby. I'm back. Just not…well, back. But I'm not a push-over, anymore. I can dish out just as good as I can take. Today's proved that, and tomorrow will continue to prove it, and all the tomorrows until I get the hell out of here in May.

**-.-**

**Notes: Well. I sincerely apologize for not having this out sooner. It took for-fucking-ever to write this. My only real excuse for this is that my head is radically ahead of my actual progress in this story. I'm worrying about exactly how Stan and Kyle are going to get together, when I need to be focusing on getting them to talk to each other first. **

**Oh well. New Year, new semester, unknown time available for writing. I will resolve to have a new chapter posted before Valentine's Day. That gives me about a month.**

**In the meantime, reviews are decreasing again. I would absolutely love to be able to claim at least a five review/chapter ratio. It would make me feel…I dunno, deserving of all the hits and faves this story has.**

**Thanks.**

**Phoenix II**


	9. At Work III

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See Prologue**

**Summary: Stan has to work.**

**-.-**

_At Work III_

**-.-**

I'm absolutely thrilled to leave school and head to work. Head held high and with a newly invigorated step, I make the half-mile trek to Jumpin Java in only eight minutes. Even the walk is better today. The air is still bitterly cold, and there's a 20 percent chance of snow around midnight, but it's sunny and there's no wind. There are no enraged drivers trying to kill me, no evil squirrels, and no pigeons to defecate upon my head. I only have to be there three hours, so it'll be better than a normal day, and even though it's begun eating more of my weekend, Greg signing up for that evening class is the best thing that's happened in a while. I've actually had evenings to myself, allowing me the opportunity to do shit.

I walk into Jumpin Java, grinning at the sign on the door that announces in large, bold print, that Jumpin Java will close early today for "Administrative Business." Very clever wording on Greg's part, but I figure he would've flunked out of the class if he wasn't clever, so there you go. I see a couple old people reading the newspaper, but no Greg. He must be in the back room, so I drop my bag behind the counter and toss my coat on top of it and head into the back. "Hey Greg," I say, knocking lightly on the door to get his attention.

"Hi, Stan," Greg says. "Ready to get to work?"

"Ready as ever," I reply, grinning.

"Alright, get out there, then," Greg says, not looking up from his Marketing Strategies textbook.

"No problemo, boss," I say with a grin, walking out to the register as the first of the customary sea of schoolchildren heads in.

Tweek is the first today.

"Oh Jesus!" he exclaims. "You guys are closing early!? What'm I supposed to do?"

"Get some to go?" I suggest.

"To go?"

"Yeah, you know…carry-out?"

"You guys do that?"

"Of course we do that!"

"Oh. Well, then…I'll have five of my usual, please, Stan."

"Thirty-six ninety-five, Tweek."

"OH JESUS!" Tweek exclaims, handing over his debit card. Glaring, I swipe it and get Tweek to sign off on the receipt before going to make five of Tweek's favorite. One thing I don't think I'll ever understand is how he can consume that much caffeine. You're only supposed to have like three cups of coffee a day as an ADULT, or else you're at risk for heart disease. Tweek drinks ten to fifteen cups a day. He should be dead five times over by now.

"Here you go, Tweek," I say after I finish, handing him four in a travel carrier and one to drink. Twitching and shaking, he grabs the one outside the carrier and drains probably half of it.

"Thanks so much, Stan," he says, taking off.

"Yeah, no problem, Tweekers," I mutter, turning to the next person in line.

"Cartman."

"Hippie. You going to cause me even more problems today?"

"Am _I_ going to cause _YOU_ more problems today?" I ask incredulously. "You've been causing _ME_ problems for the past three years, I think I'm entitled to cause you a few now and then. What do you want?"

"Your mom."

"You can't have her. What else?"

"Just a coffee," Fatass says, forking over a dollar. "With cream."

"Fine," I say, grabbing the dollar and putting it into the register. I pour him a cup, add the cream, and thrust it over.

"So long, farewell, aufveiderschein, adieu," I say, directing him to the door.

"Dosvidanya, adios, and sayonara to you too, pillow-biting assmaster!" Cartman throws back at me, stalking out the door.

"Stan? You work here?" the next person in line asks. I look up.

"Uhm, I've worked here for about three years, Wendy," I say. "How can I help you?"

"Well, uh, I don't really drink coffee, I'm just getting something for Kyle." I bristle as she mentions his name, and scowl and she fumbles around in her purse for something.

"Uhh…he wanted a mocha-caramel latte with half-caf Colombian coffee and no cream. Oh, and a biscotti thing." I glare. What a fucking douche. First, he wants a pretentious drink that's typically seen in OC-drone, boat shoe, khaki pants, and polo-shirt wearing, designer sunglasses-sporting, bimbo-getting types. With rich parents and no troubles in the world. For second, HE MADE HIS GIRLFRIEND GET IT FOR HIM! What a fucking jackass!

"Stan?" Wendy asks, jolting me out of my mental ravings.

"What?"

"How much is that?"

"Oh. Uhm, six thirty-three." Wendy gives me six fifty, and I give her the change before making that jackass Jew of a boyfriend of hers his mocha-caramel latte. I swear to fucking God, he is such a bastard. Now that I can look outside, there's his car, and he's just looking in! He could have gotten it himself, but nooooooo, he had to use someone else, because … I dunno, either because he wants to make sure he avoids interacting with me like the plague, or because he's just a jackass who, as the King of the School, just LOVES not having to do anything for himself. Or some combination of the two.

"Here, Wendy," I say, handing it and the two biscottis over. "Tell Kyle to have a great day."

"Oh, you too, Stan!" she says cheerily, flouncing out. "I'll see you in school tomorrow!"

"Bye, Wendy," I say, waving and plastering a fake smile on my face that lasts only until the door shuts, at which point I feel like vomiting. She gets back into Kyle's car and begins an animated conversation with him, and he looks like he's constipated as she starts talking. What a fucking jackass.

"Stan?"

"Yes?"

"Uhm, can I have some coffee?" It's Kenny.

"Oh. Hi Kenny. Sure. Just coffee?" I ask.

"Nah, I'm not a douche like Broflovski. Just coffee, please."

"Three quarters." Kenny gives me seven dimes and a nickel. Well, he's not rich either, I guess… I get him his coffee and he gives me a little half-wave goodbye as he leaves. I'm puzzled. It's like fucking old-home week here. None of these people have spoken to me for the last three years, and now they're treating me like my family never lost all my money.

There's something going on here. Something strange. I mean…what's happened to Kyle's control over the school's population? It's been like…General Order One for the last three years that I am to be Avoided at All Costs. And now…what, I'm not? Who knocked down the Berlin Wall that's been separating me from society? Was it the girls? I mean, I know that they can totally dominate someone's life, I suppose if they wanted to see me out and about, they could "persuade" the guys, but…

No, no that's ridiculous. There's gotta be some other reason. Hell, even the idea that Cartman's got some huge amount of blackmail on Kyle that forced him out of his leadership and that Cartman decided to bring me down by lulling me into a false sense of security is more believable. But highly improbable. I have absolutely no clue about why people are allowed to speak to me now. But I'm almost certain Jew is behind it, and if Jew has a plan for me, I'm probably going come out of it looking like a buffoon. If I come out of it at all. You know what they say: Meddle not in the affairs of Jews, for they will betray you to the Romans for crucifixion if you piss them off.

The next hour and a half is rather uneventful, no one of any note stops by, the old people finish their newspapers and leave, and by 4:20, the place is empty. Since no one's come in to order since four, I got all my cleaning and supply-putting-away done early. I've even wiped down all the tables and placed the chairs on top of them. The time being 4:29, I head back to the back room, to let Greg know that we're ready to lock up.

I'm all the way inside the back room before I open my mouth.

"Greg," I say, catching his attention.

"Time already?" he asks. As he does, the clock on the far wall ticks over to 4:30. I grin at him.

"Yep, time's up, Greg."

"Shit," he replies, closing his book and standing up, reaching for his keyring. "I'm gonna bomb that exam, I have no idea what it's on."

"You'll be fine. Just remember, it's NOT Herbie Hancock," I reply, stopping cold as the bells on the front door jingle, indicating that someone's entered the store.

"Stan?" a tentative voice calls out. "Stan, are you here?" It's … Kyle?

"Aren't you gonna go answer?" Greg asks.

"I don't talk to that kid. Tell him I'm busy doing inventory, or that I'm gone or something," I reply.

"Stan…"

"Just do it, OK?" I hiss.

"You owe me," Greg replies before putting on a curious face and walking out front.

"Can I help you?" I hear him ask as I remain out of sight.

"Yes, is Stan here?" Kyle asks.

"No, no he's not."

"But…aren't those his coat and bag?" Shit!

"No…" Greg says smoothly. "Those are mine." Oh, thank you Greg. Thank you SOMUCH.

"Are you sure? I've been watching for ten minutes, I didn't see him leave…" He's been WHAT? What the FUCK is going on?

"He went out the back. Wanted to have a smoke before he headed home." Greg, if I were gay, I'd kiss you on the lips. Hell, I still may.

"What?"

"You heard me. Beat it, kid, I've got a test to go fail," Greg says, waiting a few moments before repeating, "Go on, get out." A few seconds later, the bells chime again, signifying that Kyle has indeed left the store. I hear a click as Greg locks the door, and soon enough he comes back carrying my bag and coat.

"How'd you know I smoke?" is the first question out of my mouth.

"Saw the packet in your coat pocket. You're gonna wanna go out the back now, by the way," he says as I put on my coat and sling my bag over my shoulders.

"I can't thank you enough for that."

"You're just lucky I have good improv skills."

"And that you love me."

"Yeah, sure, Stan. Now, beat it."

"Yes sir!" I say, skedaddling. I peek my head out the back door and check both directions for Kyle. Seeing no Jew, I stalk out through the snow-filled alleyway and put myself on my path to the liquor store.

There's definitely something wrong here. Kyle's up to something, I know he is. But this is completely out of left field and – most importantly – completely out of character for him. We don't talk anymore. And he's ANYTHING but timid where I'm concerned. He alternates between vitriolic and icily cold. Like an Icy-Hot patch of hate. I can't think of any possible reason why Kyle would turn up at my workplace after-hours asking for me.

It makes about as much sense as the Buffs Baseball team winning the College World Series. The Buffs don't even _HAVE_ a Baseball team anymore! That's how crazy and completely fucked up this is. Shouldn't have happened. No way, no how, not possible. It's just fucking insane.

I'm going to get my supplies, go home, and eat supper. I'll have a smoke on my way home. But I'm going to have a beer after supper. There is so much not right with this in anyway, if I worry about it or try to analyze it, I'm going to explode. I will brain will turn into a carnivorous beast and eat itself and I'll just … I dunno, die. What I will do, though, is keep my guard up. Be on the lookout for Jew and Jew's Cronies. No talking to Kenny. No talking to Wendy. Nothing by taunting Cartman. Maybe kick Butters in the balls, just because he's Butters. No talking to anyone. That'll solve the problem. It's worked for the last three years.

It should work now.

God I hope it does.

**-.-**

**Notes: Oh my God, look, it's an update from me after a little more than two weeks. I did get it up before Valentine's Day though, so props for me?**

**Anyway, this story is on pace to be my best performing ever. I'm absolutely thrilled, even if I seem a bit whiney. Reviews were up last chapter, so I'm happy about that, and I'm more or less happy about how the new semester's working out.**

**Mondays and Wednesdays are busy as hell, Tuesdays and Thursdays are boring as hell, and Fridays are a strange mix of the two. So, all in all, all's good.**

**Next chapter should be up before the end of February. It's a short month and I have a few presentations to do, so …**

**Phoenix II**


	10. Elsewhere

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See prologue**

**Summary: Stanley tries his fake ID out**

**-.-**

_Elsewhere_

**-.-**

I don't think I've ever hated Kyle more than I do now. I mean, really. Who the Hell does the little fucker think he is? He sits in his car for ten minutes (out of my sight, apparently), watching me work to close up, and then when it's almost EXACTLY time to lock the doors, the little bastard brazenly steps in and more or less demands to speak with me, after we haven't spoken in three years.

I'm sorry, but that's a little late to be having second thoughts. And if Mister Genius Stud Running Back is just now deciding he made a mistake by disenfranchising me, I will never respect him. Goddamnit…I don't know what the hell's wrong with him. Why he thinks he has the right to stalk me, why he would be stalking me in the first place, why Wends wasn't with him, and about thirty-eight other questions are racing through my mind now.

The hate is exacerbated because of the fact that it should only be a twenty minute walk to the liquor store from Jumpin Java. Because of the fact that I've been taking alleys and side-streets, peeking around every corner twice to make sure Kyle's not following me, it's taken me forty. The damn place is going to close in twenty minutes, and since it's so close to Christmas, half the men in town are probably lined up to stock up on liquor to "spice up" the eggnog.

When I arrive, true to prediction, there's a line out the door and the parking lot's full. Shivering, I fish in my pocket for a cigarette and my lighter, taking a long drag and resting my feet alternately against the front wall while I wait for the line to move forward. I watch Mr. Black walk out with two cases of high-quality whiskey. Token's probably going to spirit away at least half a case for Kyle's Chrismukkah Party. After him is Craig's Dad, with a case of Guinness. I've had their eggnog before. It's really creamy and tastes fucking fantastic. Then comes Clyde's current dad – I think it's Donovan again…his Mom gets a divorce every couple years and rotates between three guys. I actually kinda feel bad for the guy…he has to deal with all the paperwork to change his name with every new marriage. The line moves forward a bit, and I'm two people from the door.

Mister Stevens follows, with cases of schnapps for Missus Stevens, and I know that Bebe will lift more than a couple to get admission to Kyle's party, and access to Kyle's Jew ass. Sarge Yates follows, with a case of schnapps, a case of Guinness, and two cases of Coors. I suppose Barbrady will be the only cop on duty in Park County Christmas night, as usual. To my minimal surprise, he's followed out by Dr. Doctor, who's got beer and wine coolers. And two bottles of "medicinal" whiskey. The only thing they're going to medicate, of course, is the memories of all the patients they lose at that shithole. Finally, I'm in the door. I flick my cigarette butt out the door in compliance with the no-smoking policy, and watch the three others ahead of me place their orders.

Mister Testaburger is at the counter, and I know exactly what he's getting for whom. A bottle of whiskey, a bottle of gin, and a bottle of bourbon for himself, a case of wine for his wife, and three sets of wine coolers – ostensibly for his wife, but I know that they're for Wendy to get into Kyle's party. They're fruity little things, but they taste great and do well to loosen pesky inhibitions. I bet Kyle takes pains to buy her a couple on every date, so the bastard can get laid. After him comes Skeeter, who predictably loads up on beer and whiskey. Barbrady is going to have his work cut out for him, by the looks of it. That's enough for all of Skeeter's usual bunch of friends. The last person in line before me looks to be one of the Mayor's flunkies. He buys schnapps, schnapps, schnapps, and more schnapps. Now, either the Mayor's planning on throwing a hell of a party, or she's planning on screwing around with Barbrady again and needs to get in the "proper state of mind." I can't blame her for needing a healthy dose of liquid courage to think about seeing Barbrady naked. I'd have to be nearly dead from alcohol poisoning before I would even give fucking Barbrady a second thought.

Finally it's my turn. I step up to the counter, much to the surprise of Jamey. He and Dad were friends in High School, and meet up all the time at the bar. I met him a couple times when I needed Dad's help with something and he was there.

"Stan? What are you doing here?"

"Hey Jamey," I answer. "I need a carton of Marlboros and a case of Coors."

"Can do on the smokes, but the beer…"

"It's for Dad," I assure him. "He asked me to pick it up on my way home from work, since I was getting off before him for once."

"Well, since it's for Randy…" Jamey says, grabbing both and hauling them up on the counter before ringing them up. "ID, Stan?"

Smiling, I dig my real license out of my wallet and hand it over. Jamey gives it a once-over and hands it back. "Thirty-six ninety nine, Stan," he tells me, and I grin at my luck. I pull the thirty-seven dollars out of my wallet and slide them across the counter, grinning.

"Keep the change," I say with a smirk, taking my receipt and purchases. I slip the carton of cigs into my bag and heft the beer case under my arm, setting off home. I'll have to be just as careful walking home as I was walking here. If Kyle really wants to talk to me, he'll be staking out my house, so I'll have to sneak in the back way. Goddamn Jew, that'll add another twenty minutes to an already 30-minute walk. I'm seething with rage, right now. Why did he have to pick today, of all days, to aggravate me like this?

I sneak back into the center of town and peek my head out of an alley to have a look around when I see Butters walking down the street talking on his cell, and since he's the only person around I can plainly hear what he's saying.

"…Kyle, man, I dunno about this…I've been walking around for almost two hours, and dinner hits the table back home in half an hour, and if I'm not home for dinner, I'm gonna get grounded, you KNOW that…just call it off, dude."

At the first mention of Kyle, I quickly pull my head back and flatten myself to the nearest building, hoping he'll just pass me by. No such luck, as I listen to him continue his conversation.

"Wait a minute, dude, I just saw him. Alley between the barbershop and the hardware store…you want me to put him on the phone? Alright…" I hear as he draws closer and turns the corner and appears in front of me.

"Hi Stan!" he says, not losing any of his perpetual cheerfulness. "What've you got there?"

"None of your business," I reply icily, looking for a way out of this without talking to Kyle. Unfortunately, I'm boxed in to my left by a pile of boxes, on my right by a garbage can, behind me by a brick wall, and in front of me by Butters.

"Uh…Kyle," he says, pointing to his phone, "wants to talk to you."

"Tell Kyle," I say, pulling back my right leg, "That I'm in no mood to talk." Then I snap kick Butters in the balls, push him into the pile of boxes, and flee down the street, not even caring if Kyle's waiting just around the corner. I take small satisfaction in the fact that, besides Butters' "Oof!" and groan as I connected and he fell, that I heard Kyle screaming "Butters? What's going on?" as I made my escape.

I sprint for two blocks before the weight of my load catches up with me and forces me to slow down and catch my breath. I duck into another alley and wait until my breathing returns to normal to continue on. I double my vigilance, and it pays off. I manage to avoid Kenny three blocks later, and Lardass lurking by my bus stop before catching Kyle's car just where I expected it, parked in front of my house, with its occupant fogging his windshield angrily yelling at his various minions for failing to catch me.

I can't help but chuckle as I nip around the block to the alley, where I'm able to climb over my back fence and walk through my backyard, in through the kitchen door, up to my room, where I drop off my bag and beer before heading downstairs to catch a late dinner. I laugh aloud when I think over all I did this afternoon. I had Greg lie to Kyle, I lied to Jamey, I avoided Kyle's net of operatives, I kicked Butters in the balls, which is something I've wanted to do for three years, and I made Kyle angry. This is probably going to cause a problem at school tomorrow, but it will be SO worth it.

He deserves it. He deserves to know that I want nothing to do with him or his cronies. He deserves the realization that he doesn't control everything related to South Park High and its students. He deserves to be foiled. It's taken too goddamn long. He's had uncontested control ever since his coup three Decembers ago. Maybe this will teach him that there are people who don't think he's the greatest thing since sliced bread. That he is actually fallible. That I fucking hate him and everything to do with him.

I can't wait for school Monday. I'm going to go upstairs and do all my homework, and then start working on getting blasted. I'll go to school sober…barely. And that's a good thing. The residual alcohol in my blood will help soften the punches that will almost certainly come for this blatant defiance of Kyle's authority.

But fuck him. Seriously. Fuck him.

Bastard Jew, anyway. He can go straight to Hell, even though he doesn't believe in it. He can go wherever bad Jews go when they die. I don't know where that is, but he's going there. He's definitely going there. Be all his sins remember'd, and all that. Hell, I'd even settle for him to get his come-uppance in the form of karma, taking away all HIS power and prestige and authority and fangirls. Not that I necessarily want them back; I don't think I'd know what to do with them after so long, but it would be GREAT if he didn't have them anymore.

I wonder if he has any dirty little secrets that I can exploit… assuming I can find out about them. Maybe Wendy knows something. Maybe he's got his Dad's ED. Maybe he suffers from premature ejaculation. Third nipple? No, I'd know about that…he doesn't have any embarrassing bookmarks, so unless it's something psychological that he's just come down with or something wrong with his sexual performance, it would have to be something else. I think I should have a long talk with Wendy, see if she can tell me anything I can use to further subvert Kyle's authority.

Oh, I can almost taste his downfall…

**-.-**

**Notes: So, here you go, a new chapter before the end of February. I'll tell you, though; it's getting considerably harder for me to write these lead-up chapters. Not for lack of interest in the subject, but because my mind is so far ahead of the rest of me in this story. I'm already thinking about the point WAY in the future where there is hesitant Kyan, and smex. Oh, and stupid Stan, with all sorts of emotional baggage…and two or three surprises.**

**The next chapter will be up sometime before Easter. This is due to the fact that I need about a month between chapters, and because I have all of Spring Break in there to work on it.**

**So…sometime during Holy Week, at worst.**

**Reviews are doing great, I'm just going to spend the next month all jittery and unbalanced because I'm going to have a decimalized review/chapter ratio. Oh well…I'll eventually put it out of my mind. I love you all for helping soothe my deep-seated fears of inadequacy.**

**Till March,**

**Phoenix II**


	11. At Work IV

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See Prologue**

**Summary: Work gets interesting.**

**-.-**

_At Work IV_

**-.-**

It's pretty funny to think of all the benefits avoiding Kyle has brought me. Over the past two months, he still hasn't stopped trying to talk to me. Assuming (correctly) that beating the shit out of me would be counterproductive to achieving that goal, he's called off the dogs. And while I'm grateful for that, that doesn't mean I'm going to talk to him out of the blue. For all I know, he's trying to make me happy with him again and then sell me to Mexican drug-dealers to be a gay love-slave.

I talked with Wendy when we got back from Christmas break. Carefully, of course, lest I inflame Kyle's Jew-temper to a point where he sics genetically-enhanced Rottwielers on me. I didn't get a lot out of it. She only told me that Kyle had been spending a lot of time on the Internets. I found out, somewhat to my distaste, that he does NOT have any problems getting it up. In fact, he can get it up sometimes three times in one night. I nearly puked.

She also told me that he's not at all a cold, distant bastard like I've seen him as. He's very affectionate, never forgets a birthday or anniversary, and he always buys sweet little presents. In bed, I learned (before I covered my ears and started humming loudly), Kyle was slow and gentle, making a point to kiss almost every inch of skin before he even STARTS anything that could be actually be considered sex. He remakes his entire bed, putting on 1200 thread count sheets and really, really soft pillows, and just "makes a girl feel loved."

Unfortunately, I didn't get much of a reason for why he would be so obsessed with me. She said that he seemed to act funny after she told him that I told her to tell him to have a great day. Apparently, she didn't catch the sarcasm I'd lain on that statement, and thus, neither did Kyle. The next thing she knew, she said, she'd been dropped off, Kyle had begged off their plans for that evening, and he was driving off with a manic look in his eyes.

At first, I refused to consider it, but I think it's entirely possible that this whole mess is based on a misunderstanding. Wendy had a blonde moment and failed to pick up on a sarcastic statement, relayed it as genuine to Kyle, which sparked … something or other in him, and made him think I want to talk to him, and somehow over the past two months hasn't figured out that I actually DON'T. The variable in that is what that sparked in Kyle. I mean… there had to be some sort of festering desire to speak with me that would make him jump at the "opportunity" like he did, but it had never shown itself before. If he wanted to talk to me and make up, he wouldn't have let me go three years being bullied and slandered and treated worse than a fucking emo kid! Everything is fine in that formula, until that roadblock.

There's also the small problem that Kyle hasn't come back to Jumpin' Java since. I know, because I spend every minute of my shift on alert, ready to duck down out of sight the second I see his curly red hair. Or his shiny silver Beamer. Or Wendy, for that matter. I talked Greg into instituting a "No-cell-phones-while-in-line" policy that should give me advance warning, if someone like Kenny, Butters, or Lardass ducks out of line and pulls out their cell.

Today's been very quiet. It's the first weekend in March, and the Park is in the middle of a thaw. Everybody's outside, or walking, bottles of water in one hand and MP3 players strapped to their arms, and nobody except the old people are seeking coffee. A couple people have stopped by for iced drinks, but even I know that Harbucks has more of those, and of better quality. At least Greg's happy, it's nice and quiet for him to study back there.

At three, with two hours left on my shift, Greg comes out and lets me have a smoke break, after which I will close out my afternoon by playing guitar for deaf old people who can't hear me. This, for me, is probably a blessing, because I know maybe three songs old people like. And I even mess those up fifty percent of the time. My old-person repertory is two songs by Styx, one old Jimi Hendrix song, and a cover of "All Along the Watchtower". Which is… complicated. A good song, I loved it on Battlestar Galactica, but it's still complicated. Took me three months to get down.

I sneak out back for my break, and look around carefully before I light up. A week after Kyle first showed up, I carefully constructed an area for me to smoke in the back of the alley. It's structured so that nobody can see me from the entrance, but that I have clear view of everything that passes by the entrance to the alley. If I saw Kyle looking into the alley, I would spike out my cigarette and wait for him to pass. It sounds slightly paranoid, I know, but I don't want to be accosted by him. I don't want this inevitable confrontation until I know what the hell is going on with him. Once I figure out his motivation, why my statement that was intended as sarcasm set him off, I'll confront him and tear him thirteen new assholes.

But I'm going to do everything in my (limited) power to hold off that conversation until I know exactly what's up. Hopefully, something will happen to help me figure that out. Maybe Kyle will make a mistake, or something like that. Something, anything, to help me out. Even though I doubt he wants me to know what the hell's going on with him. Hell, HE might not even know what's wrong with him. Though, being the evil Jew genius he is, he almost certainly knows what's wrong with him. And will in no way make it easy for me to figure out what's wrong with him. Goddamn Jew.

Finishing my cigarette, I flick the butt out into the gravel and check one last time for any signs of Kyle before sneaking back into Jumpin Java and heading for my guitar stool. I tune Delilah up before strumming a few chords and launching into "Show Me the Way." It's one of two of my old-people set that I actually like, along with "All Along the Watchtower."

There are times I'm grateful for a versatile voice. When I'm singing "Show Me the Way" is definitely one of them. I let it go softer and higher, and close my eyes as I start singing.

"_Every night I say a prayer, in the hopes that there's a Heaven._

_But every day I'm more confused, as the saints turn in to sinners._

_All the Heroes and Legends I knew as a Child, have fallen to idols of clay._

_And I feel this empty place inside, so afraid, that I've lost my faith…_" I sing. I identify with this song, a lot. The oldies really had it right, sometimes. My fingers are going fast and light, strumming away, as I think about the empty place inside of me and head to the chorus, my tapping toes taking the place of the drum bridge.

"_Show me the way._

_Show me the way._

_Take me tonight, to the river and wash my illusions away._

_Please show me the way._

"_As I slowly drift to sleep, for a moment, dreams are sacred._

_Close my eyes, and know there's peace,_

_In a world so filled with hatred._

_That I wake up each morning, and turn on the news, and find we've so far to go._

_And I keep on hoping for a sign, so afraid, I just won't know._" A valid fear. I'm not sure HOW I would know, or that I even really want to know.

"_Show me the way._

_Show me the way._

_Bring me tonight, to the mountain and take my confusion away._

_And show me the way._

"_And if I see your light, should I believe?_

_Tell me, how will I know?_" I launch off into the guitar riffs that take off a minute or two, and take this time to reflect on what's going on with Kyle. He's a light, right? Or something like that? At least, it appears he wants me to think of him that way. So, me being all rejecting and distrusting is like the crisis of faith here. Which is bad…isn't it? But…it's good for me as is. How would I know if I should believe him?

"_Show me the way_

_Show me the way_

_Sake me tonight to river and wash my illusions away_

_Show me the way_

_Show me the way_

_Give me the strength and the courage to believe i will get there someday_

_And please show me the way._

_Every night, I say a prayer in hopes that there's a Heaven._"

I know something's wrong even before I open my eyes after playing the closing chords. Because SOMEONE is clapping. The old people don't applaud, ever. They're deaf, and even if they CAN hear me, applause is something reserved for grandchildren and the Count Basie Orchestra. So, cautiously I open my eyes and what HAD been a smile as I relaxed into my music immediately flipped over into a frown.

Kyle was standing in front of me. He's wearing a Kelly Green polo shirt that stretches across his muscled torso, cargo khaki shorts, and two-week-old Nikes, and he looks nervous and slightly embarrassed, now that he sees he's the only one clapping. I put my guitar away to see a twenty in my case. Gee, I wonder who put THAT there.

"That was good," Kyle says, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.

"Thanks," I mutter, standing up with a scowl and heading for the counter.

"What the hell do you want, Broflovski?" I ask, not looking back at him.

"I, uh, I wanna talk," he says, following me. I sigh and lean up against the swinging half-door thing that separates my part of the counter from Kyle's, turning to face my ex-friend.

"I don't," I reply, crossing my arms.

"I do," he replies, crossing his and giving me a glare that clearly means "and I could kick your ass, you scrawny fuck, so you're going to listen to what I have to say."

"I don't care what you want."

"I don't care that you don't care. We're going to talk."

"No, we're not. We're going to argue about talking, and then I'm going to go away."

"No, you're not. You're going to listen to me."

"I have to work, you stupid dick."

"What the hell did you just call me?" Kyle's eyes flash with anger and narrow to glare at me, and his arms drop down, hands clenching into fists. Ooh, this is fun.

"I called you a stupid dick, you fucking deaf kike," I retort, not flinching in the slightest. "Or did my words go straight to that fucking huge nose of yours? Maybe got lost in your afro?"

"You son of a bitch! I try to be nice to you, and come to have a friendly chat, and you just stand there and mock me and insult me?" He's pissed. He's VERY pissed. Oh, this is just delicious.

"Yep, exactly. Maybe you're not as dumb as you look."

"WHAT!?"

"Oh, and congratulations."

"For WHAT?"

"Finally growing some fucking balls and coming down here to confront me yourself instead of sending one of your thirty eight flunkies," I reply with a cocky tone in my voice.

"I didn't come down here to CONFRONT you, I just wanna talk!" he says, tearing at his hair in frustration.

"Yeah, well, not gonna happen," I tell him, backing through the little half-door and resuming my duties in front of the counter.

Stan: 1, Jew: 0.

Woot!

**-.-**

**Author's Note: What's this!? An update? Before Easter? But didn't that bastard author say that it would take that long to do another one?**

**Well, yes, I did. But, I got bored over the weekend, and inspired by Faery Goddyss updating SSwTE, and then by Zakuyoe updating Where No Leaf Blooms, which is 10 away from him getting 300 reviews and doing something for somebody, I think.**

**Ah, anyway, reviews for last chapter were still phenomenal, even though I didn't quite get 60. I suppose they'll balance out eventually… like if we get 10 this time, or 16 between the next two. Either way :D**

**Same rule from last chapter is still applicable; I will attempt to have another chapter uploaded before Easter. Given the way this chapter ended, if I took any longer, y'all would probably come after me with the torches and pitchforks XD**

**Happy March!**

**Phoenix II**


	12. At Work V

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See Prologue**

**Summary: Kyle is persistent.**

**-.-**

_At Work V_

**-.-**

"Stan, please, I just need to talk to you," Kyle says, following me back to the counter. I sigh loudly and look him right in the eye.

"I'm on the job, Broflovski. Order something, or leave me alone."

"Stan, damnit, just talk to me!"

"Can't. Rules, and stuff. Are you going to order something or not?"

"There's no one here!"

"That's not the point!"

"Yes it is! Talk to me, Stan, please."

"No. Order something or leave."

"Fine! Give me a coffee!" he says in a very frustrated fashion, pulling a dollar out of his pocket and smacking it down on the counter.

"Just a coffee? Not one of your douchy half-caf caramel lattes?" I ask in a snarky tone, taking the dollar and ringing up his order. Kyle's face is as red as his hair, and it's obvious that he's frustrated that I'm not behaving as he imagined I would. Like I could just ignore those three years of beatings and verbal abuse and cuff him on the shoulder like I used to and say "What took you so long?"

"Yes just a coffee," he growls. I snicker as I toss him his quarter in change and pour him a cup of coffee. Apparently he's figured out that I'm going to milk his reticence to hurt me further for all it's worth. I pass it over and then go lean against the back counter, while Kyle still remains at the front counter.

"What now?" I ask, putting on an astonished yet disgusted face and glaring at him. "Want a biscotti? Those cost extra, you know."

Kyle puts on a hurt face. "No, I don't want a goddamn biscotti. I want you to talk to me."

"How many times do I have to tell you no before you understand the meaning of a monosyllabic, two letter goddamn word?" I ask.

"Come on, dude, you used to be my best friend…talk to me."

"Operative words, used to be. I'd rather have Cartman throw another scalding hot latte in my face than talk to you."

Kyle pauses for a moment trying to think up a response to that.

"You suck, Stan," he says with a glare before sitting down. I shrug it off and swing my legs back and forth before I get a burning itch in my blood.

"Greg!" I call, standing back up and going into the back room.

"Stan?"

"I need another," I say, tapping the pocket where I keep my cigarettes.

"Fine, we're slow this afternoon anyway. I doubt we'll have another customer. When you get back in, clean up the unused tables and start running people out, OK?"

"Gotcha, Greg," I say, heading for the back door. "Thanks."

I sneak out to my smoking spot and sit down, lighting myself a cigarette and taking a long drag. Goddamn Kyle. God damn him to Hell. What the hell could he possibly want with me? And why can't he see that I'm not interested in whatever it is? We're as different as apples and oranges now, there's practically nothing we have in common anymore. Kyle's the rich genius stud, I'm the poor barista with good grades but not perfect. He wears Abercrombie and Fitch, American Eagle, Hollister, and that kind of preppy shit, I'm decked out in discount Wal-Mart and J-Mart clothes. He eats gourmet Kosherfood, I'm eating Hamburger Helper and peanut butter sandwiches. There's really nothing left in common.

He should just leave me alone. I didn't ask for his attention, and I don't want it. In two months, I'll be gone, and I won't be any additional bother to Kyle and whatever ambitions the little fucker has. The problem is, he doesn't seem to be inclined to acquiesce to my request. I've already told him that I don't want anything to do with him. Pretty clearly. Has Jew-boy listened? NEIN, NEIN, NEIN!

I wonder what it's going to take to show that I'm not interested in anything he has to say. I've assaulted his associates, avoided him, and insulted him to his face. If he can't figure it out after that, I don't think there's any hope for him. He's always been determined, and I can respect that determination, but when it comes at the expense of ignoring the desires and opinions of those affected by it, someone needs to kick him in the nuts, and not stop until he admits that he gets the message. Or dies. Whichever.

I stab out the butt and realize that I'm nowhere closer to being calm than I was before I came out here. Sighing, I reach for another cigarette and light it, taking several deep drags before I hear something that sends chills down my spine and makes my heck hairs stand on end. Another lighter flicks active, and lights something. Then comes rapid coughing, coming from the alley side of my little enclosure. I quickly stand up and, against my better judgment, go around to look at who it is.

I freeze in my tracks to find Kyle leaning against the back wall of Jumpin' Java, holding a lit cigarette.

"Hi Stan," he says, with a small grin, holding up the cigarette. "This is disgusting."

"It's probably not kosher," I tell him with a scowl and a sharp glare. "You're probably going to Hell now."

His grin vanishes. "Don't act like that, damnit; I'm just trying to break the ice."

"Broflovski, a Russian-made icebreaker ship couldn't make headway in the frozen mass between us."

"Would you just stop with it already? I just wanna talk to you, Stan."

"Hmm, lessee here. I've kicked your messenger boy in the nuts, avoided you for the last two weeks, and just tore you a new asshole in there. How much clearer can I make it that I DON'T WANT TO TALK TO YOU?" I yell, taking an angry puff of my smoke. I blow the smoke towards him, and he flinches, recovering quickly.

"You don't even know what I want to say!" Kyle accuses wildly, just a step or two on the scale of irrationality from flailing his arms through the air.

"And I don't want to!" I say, cutting him off. "It's not my problem anymore! YOU'RE not my problem anymore. Nor am I yours. We're about as separate from each other as peanut butter and cheeseburgers. Go AWAY!"

"No!" he insists, pushing himself off the wall and walking angrily towards me. "You're going to listen to me, and you're going to like what I have to say."

"That sounds like a threat, Broflovski," I sneer, putting on an air of dispassion while internally I'm more than a little scared of the guy. I mean, he's run over guys twice my size, and he's been doing it for four years.

"The second part's not," he says. "The first part's up for discussion. Now, are you going to listen, or not?"

"Not. Are you going to back off, or do you want to have to explain to Wendy just _why_ you can't have children?"

"Go ahead, kick me in the balls. I'll have your ass thrown in jail and you won't get out until you listen to me."

"You can't do that," I scoff, rolling my eyes, though not really doubting his abilities.

"I'm a Jew. I can do whatever I want," he says, a smug look on his face, which is way too close to mine.

"Get away from me," I seethe. "Broflovski."

"Don't call me that," he says, bearing down. "My name's Kyle. You know that. We were best friends for ten years, for Christ's sake. Stop calling me Broflovski."

"The key word in that statement, _Broflovski_, is 'WERE.' We WERE best friends. We aren't anymore. I can call you whatever the hell I want. I could call you Chuckles McGee the Assramming Serial Rapist if I wanted, but I'll settle for Broflovski. It angers you." 

"YES it angers me!" he says, and I think a little spittle lands on my jacket. "Of course it angers me! Goddamnit, you're being unreasonable!"

"And you're just not fucking listening. I told you to leave me alone and go away." My voice gets hostile and I slam my cigarette into the ground in order to clench my fists. I _will_ hit this little fuck if I have to.

"And I told YOU that's not going to fucking happen. Now be a good boy and sit down and open your ears." My mouth hangs open, incredulous. What the hell did he just call me?

"What the fuck? 'Be a good boy'? I'm not a dog, asshole!"

"No, but you're acting like a fucking child. SIT!" Kyle yells, pointing at my alcove. Jesus, does he have no people skills at all? Or any sense? Can he not tell that I'm not exactly in a mood to follow orders from him?

"Fuck you, Broflovski."

"Don't call me that! Only those stupid fucking asshole teammates of mine call me that!"

"You mean those fucking asshole teammates of yours that have been beating the shit out of me under your orders the last three years?"

"No, Goddamnit, I didn't tell them to do that! I'd never hurt you like that, Stan!"

"Oh fuck you! Goddamn lying Jew-rat. I believe that like I believe the government faked the moon landing!" I say, pushing Kyle away from me and heading for the door.

"Now LEAVE ME ALONE!" I shout, walking back into Jumpin' Java and slamming the door behind me. I slide down to the floor, panting while Kyle hammers on the door. Greg looks back in, concerned.

"What the hell happened out there?"

"That asshat from a couple months ago showed back up. Between you and me, he's crazy," I answer. "Just gimme a minute and I'll help you clean up," I add, taking deep breaths to try and calm down.

Goddamn that Kyle. He does NOT know how to leave well enough alone. Bad enough three years ago when he threw me out of the group, but now that everyone's adjusted to the new status quo, he doesn't like it anymore? Does he not understand the way High School's supposed to work? He's been there for four years, he should know that jocks are king, cheerleaders are queen, nerds are to be bullied, emos are to be constantly mocked, brown people are to be avoided and have INS called on them, and I'm not supposed to even exist in the eyes of everyone else. But he doesn't, apparently. Four years, and the genius doesn't know the basics of the High School Hierarchy. That's. Fucking. Bull.

He's dating the HEAD CHEERLEADER! If anybody in that school could be counted on to know the acceptability levels of every kid in every class, it would be Wendy. It's her JOB, as girlfriend of the leading man and leader of the popular girl clique, to know who can be spoken to, and looked at, by those under her command. By extension, Kyle – who is VERY rarely separated from her – would hear her updating the lists to the other girls every day. He KNOWS what's what.

Moreover, that denial that my beatings are his fault is totally ridiculous. Jock rule number one: The star jock runs the show. The show comes with the team. The team doesn't do anything the star jock doesn't approve of, or hasn't approved. Especially not OUR team. They even have their own language. Kyle invented it after I left. The little genius can claim anything he told them before I got the crap beaten out of me had nothing to do with me, and do it with a straight face.

That little fucker'd better leave me alone. I don't think I can take much more of his whiney yammering and his begging and pleading for me to just _listen to what he has to say_, that he_ never meant to hurt _me, and telling me that I'm _being unreasonable_, all with a little half-pout on his face and trying to pull off the puppy-dog eyes (failing miserably), and never taking the final step into pounding my ass into the wall. I can see it in his eyes, the burning rage and desire that are always oh so close to overtaking him and just laying it on me.

If he keeps going, I'm going to give him the worst beating of his life on April Fools' Day and use that excuse at trial. "It was just an April Fools' joke, Your Honor." God, I want him to keep going now. Keep pissing me off, Broflovski. We'll see who's laughing when your stupid ass is in traction.

**-.-**

**Notes: Look! The new chapter! And Jesus isn't even in the ground yet! Amazing, right?**

**I'll tell you what's amazing: You folks! TWELVE reviews! TWELVE REVIEWS! OH MY GOD! I've never had that many on a single chapter in my ficcing life! … Ficcing as in fic-writing, not as a milder derivative of … well, you get my drift.**

**Enjoy, everybody!**

**Phoenix II**


	13. At School IV

Perchance to Dream

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See prologue.**

**Summary: Kyle tries another idea.**

**-.-**

_At School IV_

**-.-**

I'm starting to think that Kyle has a death wish. Either that or he's completely lost his Jew-mind. I say this because, for the past two weeks, ever since our dust-up in the alley, Jewboy has been leaving me presents. Gifts, cards, and whatnot. Left in my locker, with no doubt as to who gave them.

The first one I didn't mind. It was a new hat. I needed a new hat. And it went well with my coat. It looked a little on the pricey side, but it was warm and comfortable, damnit. The second one was a gift certificate to a hair salon, for the cost of a haircut. Again, something I needed, something I didn't mind having. But the rest just … well, they're really pissing me off.

Especially the note. The card is always different, but the note is pretty much the same.

_Stan,_

_I'm very sorry. I just want you to be happy again._

_Can you do me that favor? Would you please?_

_I'm really sorry, Stan._

_Please?_

_Kyle_

Except he adds another really before the second sorry every day, and another please before his signature every day. So, today being the tenth day he gave me a gift, it read: "Stan, I'm very sorry. I just want you to be happy again. Can you do me that favor? Would you please? I'm really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really sorry, Stan. Please? Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please? Kyle."

And it's only making matters worse that today's gift was an extravagantly fashionable blood-red silk shirt with black dress trousers, along with a perfectly-fitting pair of black dress shoes and socks and a set of INSTRUCTIONS. He wrote a second note that was attached to the hangar bag that under no circumstances was I to not be at Kenny's 18th birthday party, being held at Kyle's house tonight, wearing this, at 9:30 P.M. No exceptions.

I highly doubt Kyle bothered to even ask Kenny about this. Though I doubt Ken would have said no to my presence, but … I have a hard time believing the whole damn party's going to be dressed so nice. Especially considering that there will no doubt be copious amount of liquor flowing at this party of Kenny's. And that when copious amounts of liquor flow, people are generally more focused on the removal of articles of clothing, no matter how good they look in them.

What Kyle hopes to gain by getting me drunk, I have no idea. Why he wants me to look good while I'm getting drunk, I have no idea. He could either want to fuck me, which we've already established as completely impossible, or … be trying to set me up with somebody. As to who that would possibly be, I have no idea, but it would have to be someone Kyle thinks would be a good drunk/pity fuck for me. Which could probably be half the school, even though half the school wouldn't fit into Kyle's house, so…I guess I won't know until I get there.

And yes, I'm going. It may look like I have a choice in the matter, but the truth is, I don't. This party is going to not only be my best chance to find out what the fuck is wrong with that Goddamned Jew, but, well, I hate to say it, but I'm kind of looking forward to maybe getting laid. It's been a damn long time, and I know that sounds terrible of me, but if someone's willing to give, fuck it, I'll take. Plus, if I DON'T go, something I have no reason for, Kyle WILL see the shit beaten out of me. No "I would never hurt you like that" nonsense, he _would_ beat me himself if I disobey this time. No, he wants me there, and as much as I hate to admit it, I'll be there.

But I'm not doing it for him, or out of any sort of lingering obligation or latent feelings of friendship for the bastard, I'm doing it for my own reasons. This is the time to confront him. This is the time to tear him all those new assholes. This is the time to bitch him out for three years of pure, unadulterated torture. This is the time to make him tell me, by causing a scene by yelling and getting everyone's attention, every last detailed reason why I was thrown out of the group. Why I deserved the treatment I got. Why nobody spoke to me for three years except to call me a poor hippie fag and laugh at me while they beat on me. Why EVERYTHING that ever went wrong for me since Dad got fired went unabated, unhindered by somebody I'd considered my best friend. Why Kyle, who COULD have done SO MUCH to help me and my family, instead swept in and took everything from me, turning me overnight from a sports star and a popular guy into a God-damned, motherfucking, cocksucking, pond-scum Melvin!

Kyle, you're going to get it. For these presents, for your mediocre, half-assed, and laughable attempts at "making right." Especially since you're trying to BUY my trust back, MAKE me like you and want to be around you because you have money to throw at me and my "problem." I appreciate the three-month supply of propane, but that's not going to make me trust you again. The new coat is comfortable, but it can't make me forget that you didn't stop my former friends from beating the shit out of me. I'm sure I'm going to look fucking fantastic in those clothes you bought me, but no amount of presents and gifts and trying to put it all on me when really I'm not responding because you have yet to do anything that would make me _want_ to do you that favor, that could make me forgive you for all the wrongs you've done me.

You say you want me happy, you friend-abandoning Jew? Then don't just come waltzing back into my life like you never left me in the first place. That's just beyond fucking stupid and moronic. You were never a stupid moron until you threw me out of the group and started fucking Wendy. You were never a stupid moron until you started running up the middle through 300 pound defensive linemen and 250-pounds-of-pure-muscle linebackers play after play after play. You only became a stupid moron after you made the worst decision of your life: to throw away ten years of friendship because of a shift in my socio-economic paradigm.

I think I would be well within my rights to murder you with extreme prejudice. But I can't do that, because that would be a hate crime. Well, of course it would be a fucking hate crime. I hate you. I hate you, you fucking stupid treacherous Jew. Ever hear that money can't buy happiness? Well guess what, Kyle, it's true. You can throw your entire fortune in Jew-gold at me, and I still wouldn't be happy. Because I can't trust you, and because you're doing this out of some twisted and delayed sense of pity.

Why are you trying to do the impossible, Kyle? What do you want from me? You can't possibly expect me to just forgive you after everything you've done…or more accurately, NOT done. You're being ridiculous, Kyle. You've started to lose your mind. It's one thing to completely change the status quo. It's quite another to let the status quo – as amended – to go on for three solid years and then wake up one morning and decide "Hmm, I'm bored, I've only got two more months in school, let's change it all again!" Maybe I don't want to go back. Well, no, that's a lie, of course I want to be back and have things back to normal, but that's not possible anymore. Not just because of the time change, but because things CAN'T go back to the way they were after all this time. I'm not the same person I was three years ago. I can't be lighthearted and jolly after I've been downtrodden, oppressed, and treated like dirt. And if anyone can, that person needs to be whisked off to Area 51 to be examined by Government Scientists, because that person is NOT human.

I'm going to enjoy watching your downfall, Kyle. Once I figure out how the hell to achieve it, I will pull off my OWN little coup against the status quo. And I will enjoy it immensely. And I will laugh, as YOU get your ass beat, and YOU get kicked in the nuts, and YOU get knocked down and have food spilled all over you. And I won't do a damn thing to stop it. In fact, I'll do the opposite. I'll encourage it. I'll slip notes to Cartman making up terrible, offensive things you did to or said about him, and then laugh my ass off while you feebly protest that it wasn't you, that you hadn't done any of those things, and that Cartman needs to not hit you. And then while you shriek and writhe in pain, I'll laugh my skinny poor ass off.

I may not get Wendy back, I may not play football again, but Goddamnit, I'll get my revenge on you for your betrayal, your treachery, your girlfriend-stealing, your lying, your behind-the-scenes directing of the pain inflicted on me by your goons, and EVERYTHING you've done that's hurt me in some way or other. I will hurt you so badly, you'll be in the same social status as me. You'll have no friends, no girlfriends, and no one will ever love you in the school. You'll have to keep your mouth shut so you don't get your ass kicked by people you once trusted with your life.

I don't think you'll be able to handle it. You'll break apart under the pressure. And when you come to me for advice, as you'll almost have to, because no one else is in my situation, I can kick you in the nuts and give you swirlies and fart on your face and then wash, rinse, and repeat. It'll be delicious. You'll figure out once and for all that I can't _FUCKING_ STAND YOU! I can't stand the fucking asshole you've become. Some sort of preppy retard that can't read people for shit anymore, who doesn't understand that no means no, and that I DON'T LIKE YOU! You're messed up, wacko, crazy. You're not Kyle anymore, you're just some idiot that looks like him. You don't deserve anything you have, and so I'm going to make it my mission to make sure you don't have it anymore. You can give me as much as you want, and then I'll make you lose the rest when you fall from grace and hit every branch on the way down before breaking your legs on impact.

And you will fucking LIKE it. If you don't, too bad. I won't stop until you give in and make me pull your face out of the toilet and beg me to stop, telling me that you like it, and that you'll leave me alone for ever and ever and ever and ever if I'll just stop. And then I'll stop, because I'll have gotten what I wanted, and you'll be disgraced. I can go on my merry way, and you can just cry your eyes out and drown in 'em for all I care. I'll have gotten everything I'll ever need in life from you.

I can start this tonight, find your weakness when I call you out for your attempts at bribing me to like you again. And after that, it's just a matter of strategy and exploitation. And if there's anything I learned from Cartman all these years ago, it's strategy and exploitation. I'm not as good at it as Cartman…nobody's as good at it as Cartman, not even Karl Rove.

I can't _wait_! I'm going to go to Kyle's party for Kenny, looking _DAMN_ sexy, and then I'm going to start ruining this life he's built for himself from the inside out. This is going to be the most delicious plot in the history of delicious plots.

Fuck you, Kyle.

**-.-**

**Notes: This will be the only update in April. I have to devote myself completely to this paper I have due 30 April, that has to be 15 pages long and that I haven't even started yet.**

**I'm incredibly happy about the amount of reviews I've been getting. 13 on the last chapter. You guys are exceeding every expectation I could possibly have about this fic.**

**Keep up the good work, and I'll see you in May!**

**Phoenix II**


	14. Elsewhere II

Perchance to Dream

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See Prologue**

**Summary: Stanneh's goin to Kahl's house.**

**-.-**

_Elsewhere II_

**-.-**

After school, I head home, with Kyle's latest gift hanging over my shoulder. Greg kindly gave me the day off, which I was notified of by a note for me at the office after lunch. Apparently somebody died or something. Oh well. Just gives me…six hours to make sure I'm ready for this.

I've had all day to plan out what I'm going to say to Kyle when I get my hands on him. That'll probably pose the first problem. He'll either be getting blasted off his ass or laid by the time I get there, so I may have to kick back with a beer and begin fending off drunk girls while I wait. When I do, I'm going to punch him in the face, and just start bitching him out. Three years worth of hurt and anguish into a…ten to fifteen minute rant, I figure. Uninterrupted. If he decides to pipe up or object to something, it could be twenty to twenty-five, but that's alright too.

When I get home, I sneak upstairs and hang up the clothes before lighting up a cigarette to calm down. I don't think Buddhist meditation would do anything for me when I'm this nervous, though. I suppose the best analogy to my situation is a prisoner of war who's returning home for the first time in three years. How different is everything going to be from what I left? How different will the people be? Will anyone greet me?

I spend the two hours before dinner trying to calm myself down. I spend all dinner trying to calm myself down. I spend the half-hour shower I take afterward trying to calm myself down. I try jacking off to calm myself down. That one, surprisingly, works. The side effect is that I have to take another shower. I don't mind that, it wastes time, which I need to be doing.

Getting out for the second time, I head back into my room and put on a clean pair of underwear and apply deodorant/antiperspirant before shrugging into a clean white undershirt and begin the process of changing into the party outfit Kyle so kindly gave me. First comes the shirt. It's a deep red long sleeved shirt that feels like silk and with black buttons, and I take care to not cause any pulls in the fabric. I decide to leave it slightly open at the top, to show off a little skin. Next come the pants, black dress pants that don't really seem to be my size until I get them up around my hips, at which point, they fit perfectly. No need for a belt, even. Which is good, because I don't have one that would match these pants. Once my shirt is tucked in properly, I sit down and grab the black dress shoes, one of which has rolled-up black socks in it. I pull those on first, and then slide on the shoes before heading to the mirror and pirouetting.

I look damn good. Now, I have to do the hair. A sexy tousle and gelling that in place should take care of that, since I took advantage of Kyle's salon trip last weekend. A few strokes of a razor to take care of any stubble along my jaw and upper lip, and Sexy Stan is ready to go.

A glance at the clock shows that I need to be heading out if I'm going to get to Kyle's by 9:30 exactly. Now, the question is if I drive or not. It's a nice enough night to walk, but it's a long enough walk to scuff these shoes…

"Dad?" I ask, from halfway down the stairs.

"What, Stan?"

"Can I take the car to Kyle's?!"

"Yeah sure, keys are on the front table!"

"Thanks, Dad!"

It doesn't strike me until I'm already out the door with the keys in hand that Dad didn't ask my _WHY_ I'm going to Kyle's. Or why I couldn't walk there. Now, Dad's not the most involved Dad in the world, but he's not THAT disinterested in what I do and why I'm doing it and all those parent-y questions. What in the hell is going on here?

My drive to Kyle's is brief and quiet. Mainly because I don't want sonic vibrations from the radio pumping full blast to mess up my hair. Or air from the vent, so that's down on low. Just to be safe, I park down the block from Kyle's house at 9:27 P.M., allowing me three minutes to walk to his house and ring the doorbell at precisely 9:30 P.M.

The door swings open to reveal not Kyle, as I expected, but a very, very drunk Kenny in the process of getting even drunker. Behind Kenny, there're about sixty people in various stages of drunkenness and undress, with more probably throughout the house and upstairs. The music is techno hip-hop, and there's a keg set up in the corner, with another table of liquor with a cooler of ice adjacent to it.

"Sup, Stan?" Kenny slurs, clutching to me to keep from falling while swigging back another Solo cup of beer.

"I'm looking for Broflovski. Happy birthday, by the way," I tell him, shouting to be heard over the music that I'm surprised hasn't elicited a noise complaint to the police yet.

"Ah, thanks dude! You ain't such a bad guy, ya know?" 

"Yeah, I've heard…where's Broflovski?"

"Off…thataway…somewhere," Kenny shouts, gesturing with this cup arm towards the kitchen, where there are about 12 half-naked girls and another keg.

"Thanks, Ken," I shout, guiding him to a seat on the stairs and moving towards the kitchen.

"BROFLOVSKI!" I scream, passing through the fog machine that's on its last legs, though still manages to hiss out another stream of moisture as I pass. This would be a lot easier if I could see and if the music was off…turning around, I head back through the smoke to the living room, tiptoeing over a pair of drunk teens that are dry-humping each other, dodging a make-out fest that crosses my path suddenly and accidentally stepping on a passed out sophomore boy on my way to the stereo and the light switch. I hit the pause button and flip on the lights, and not too surprisingly, I am subjected to vociferous displeasure. And doused in beer. Great, a three-shower night.

"Shut the fuck up!" I yell at them in my angry voice. "I'm looking for Broflovski. Where the fuck is he?"

Confused, drunk, and horny teenagers stare at me with blank stares, blinking at me and each other in ignorance and doubt before replying with a collective "Dunno."

Luckily for me, the object of my search comes running into the living room from upstairs, quite upset, quite drunk, and with his long-sleeved striped white, orange and green shirt halfway open, exposing a chest that has been getting attention from a woman wearing purple lipstick, and a liquid stain on the crotch of his khaki pants that I doubt is from beer.

"WHO THE FUCK TURNED OFF THE STEREO!?" he yells, approaching it and me to turn it back on.

"That would be me," I snark, leaning against it and crossing my legs. Immediately the expression on his face turns from one of intense anger to one of … pleasure?

"You came!" he says with a smile, approaching me and giving me a hug. His eyes are half-glazed over and he reeks of alcohol, so I push him off me.

"What in the HELL is wrong with you!?" I exclaim. He blinks stupidly.

"Staaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!"

"Back the fuck away or I will fucking wreck your face," I snarl as he tries to come at me again.

"Why're you so mad?"

"WHY AM I MAD!? Why am I MAD? YOU!"

"What'd I do?"

"Don't you even get me STARTED on what you did!" I exclaim, standing incredulous at how he has no idea that I'm even MAD at him.

"Did I do something wrong with the letters?" he asks. "I'm not all that used to begging sexy guys for anything…"

My eyes bug out. Sexy guys? Begging for things? Kyle? Not all that used to!?

"WHAT!?"

"Whaddaya mean, what? I'm talking about you, sexy…oh, god, you just know how to push every button I have, don't you?" he asks, taking in my appearance, especially my hair. What in the HELL? I am seriously starting to get creeped out here.

"Oh come on, Stan, don't be shy…"

"Don't be SHY!?"

"Yeaaaaaaah…we can go up to my room…have a nice 'talk'…" 

"Hell. Fucking. No."

"Why nooooooooooot?"

"You're blasted. And hitting on me. I'm outta this bitch!" I declare, hitting the stereo and turning the lights back off before pushing past him and the suddenly active group of revelers once more, who cut him off from me. I use this time to run to the front door, throw it open, and run with total disregard for the status of my shoes to the car, jump in, start it up, and peel out.

What the FUCK just happened back there? Kyle was…Kyle was HITTING on me. Like he was in love with me, or wanted to fuck me, or something like that. That can't possibly be right. No way in Hell can that be right.

Kyle is straight, I tell myself.

_Kyle was drunk, _a little voice inside my mind reminds me.

That doesn't matter, though. Kyle is straight.

_People tell the truth when they're drunk…_

Kyle. Is. Straight!

_As a circle…he wants to bone you._

No. No fucking way. I'll yell at him Monday, when he's sober. I'll yell and bitch and give him an extra-extended version of what I was going to give him here, the extra being the new ammo this has given me. If he IS gay, then that'll bring it out, and I can figure out where to go from there.

One thing's for sure, if he is, we're going to have a lot of fun. Because taking him down will be easier than getting arrested for killing Kenny. All I'll have to do is some extraordinarily gay act with him that he responds to in front of a bunch of people, and I'll be set. Especially if one of those people is Cartman. Wouldn't that just be delicious? All that work Kyle had to do to turn Cartman to his will, and I ruin it in an instant? Oh, it would be positively delightful!

I pull back into the driveway, run inside, and hurriedly strip out of the clothes that reek of beer and Kyle, run to the shower and stay in there for thirty minutes, scrubbing myself clean from his touch and his breath. I'm absolutely disgusted that I went over there, and that a GUY who was about two minutes removed from foreplay with Wendy (at least, I hope it was Wendy, if not, he's got even more explaining to do) was practically THROWING himself at me. He was THROWING himself at me, without a doubt. He wanted to do something. He said me, dressed like I was and with my hair like that pushed all his buttons. This was on purpose.

This was on purpose…it had to be on purpose.

He knew he was going to get blasted.

He knew how I was going to look.

He figured he could get away with any number of things; a kiss, a grope, hell, full-on mansex, because he was drunk.

But he didn't figure on me not going along with it.

Oh, BOY does he ever have some explaining to do.

**-.-**

**Notes: Well, here it is, folks! The latest chapter of PtD, and – by the grace of God – the second chapter in the fine month of April. Want to know why? Because I pulled a seventeen hour day last Sunday working on the first draft of my term paper, which I turned in last Monday and am awaiting my professor's notes on it. After I get them, I'll just have to make the changes, and do two presentations, and I'll be in the clear until Finals week. Which…is…um…holy shit, two weeks away.**

**Not enough time to knock out another chapter, probably, but I may have another one for you around Mother's Day. Because by then I will be home. Almost hard to believe at this point, but I will be. And then you can revel in Stan FINALLY getting a chance to rip into Kyle.**

**On a side note, I would absolutely flip if this baby hit 100 reviews on this chapter. Only nine to go! Depending on who 100 is…a prize may be in order. I haven't done a oneshot in a while…**

**L8rz, y'all.**

**Phoenix II**


	15. At School V

Perchance to Dream

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See Prologue.**

**Summary: Stan finally gets a chance to bitch out Kahl.**

**-.-**

_At School V_

**-.-**

Monday simply couldn't come soon enough. In fact, it took so long arriving that I stuck a polo shirt on a coat rack, pretended it was Kyle, and ranted at that. Nine times. I had to have a cigarette after every time, but on the upside, I have the delivery down pat, if I can get that faggy Jewish bastard to stand still long enough. I have the strong sense that he'll either flee in tears or hit me once I get started. Anybody would. It's really, really vicious.

But when it did come, and when I got to school, he wasn't there. I will admit to not being that surprised, since he was so smashed he's probably still hungover. Or maybe he figured out that I'm going to be extremely angry with him for the stunt he pulled at his house on Friday, assuming he remembers what the fuck he did. There's also the slightly possible option that he didn't manage to get the house back spic and span before his mother came back, and he got murdered, but any which way, he'll probably turn up sometime during the day.

"What'd you do to Broflovski?" Cartman snarls into my left ear as I'm suddenly shoved into a locker on my way to our first period History class. I've forgotten how much this hurts, since it's been a considerable amount of time since the last time.

"Nothing. Get off me, Lardass, we've got a test," I hiss back, squirming and trying to get away.

"He was perfectly fine when I passed out Friday night, I haven't seen him all weekend, and he's not here. I think you killed him." If he wasn't deadly serious, and if he didn't have me pinned to this locker, I would be laughing like a madman.

Instead, I stare at him, eyebrow raised and mouth hanging open. "You've been hit in the head one time too many, Cartman. I was hardly at the party ten minutes, if that. Doesn't Wendy know?"

"The last time she saw him, he was running downstairs just as she was about to start sucking him off." Well, at least that explains why he looked like he was in the middle of sex… he was.

"Well guess what, Cartman? I didn't kill him."

"I say you did," Cartman insists, pressing closer to me. He has no concept of personal space at all, I swear…

"And I say you're a fucking idiot," I say, kneeing him in the gut and slipping away. "You might wanna catch your breath so you don't fail, by the way!" I call back, slipping into the classroom. It's an easy as hell test, over the period between World War I and World War II, but Cartman doesn't seem to understand why people think Al Capone was a bad man. This of course, comes from a guy who borders on Holocaust denial and would make an excellent Goebbels if not a second Hitler himself and who, according to rumor, was denied a visa to travel to Germany last summer because of a blog he maintains which is full of statements that are criminal under German law.

When he does finally stagger in, two seconds before the tardy bell, he shoots me his patented "I hate you so much I want to kill you in 987 different ways before feeding you to your parents" glare before taking his seat. I grin, shrug, and proceed to ace my test, chewing vigorously on a piece of bubble gum while I do so. It's not a cigarette, but it does help relieve a bit of the stress that is incurred by taking even the easiest test or quiz. Psychologists have a better word for it (or a few, I don't know), but since I don't know any, I'll just go with the "it's stressful" excuse.

I catch a glimpse of red hair at the office on my way to Art, but even if it is Kyle, I don't have the time to tell him everything I need to tell him, and the middle of a crowded hallway is hardly the appropriate place for such a conversation. No, he'll probably catch me himself. Jackass probably knows my entire routine by know, like some sort of crazy stalker that Dateline does two hour Friday night specials about, so he'll be able to "discuss" things with me in private. Or relative privacy, as much as can be gotten in a public place.

Art is fucking fantastic today. We're given a word-prompt and told to draw and color something that we associated with that word. The word is "Peace." I draw a barren and broken landscape, with charcoal grey skies with black clouds and piles of bodies on the periphery, with the Grim Reaper sitting in a rocking chair sipping a cup of tea in the center of the page, scythe stuck in the ground. The teacher turns pale when I hand it in, and I smirk while I head out of the room.

English and Math pass without incident, and I'm well and thoroughly ready to grab my lunch and head outside for a nice smoke. Lunch is nice, even though I do have to eat it in the cafeteria. Chicken nuggets are somewhat portable, but mashed potatoes are an entirely different story. I'm full and happy by the time I get outside and light up, but of course, any happiness in my life is destined not to last. Because, sure as shooting, around the corner comes Kyle as soon as I get halfway through.

"There you are!" he says, exasperatedly.

"Where else would I be? My nice little dark corner in the cafeteria? I think not," I scoff, throwing my empty milk carton at his head and taking a drag, blowing the smoke in his face as he comes to sit beside me on the back steps.

"Goddamnit," he mutters, waving it away. "Why are you such a jackass?"

"Because I hate you," I reply cheerfully, and with just a hint of smug satisfaction and stand-offishness.

"Yeah, about that…" he starts. "I don't want you to do that anymore." He sounds like he actually expects me to do as he says.

"Not going to happen," I respond immediately after. "You have no idea why, do you? You don't have a fucking clue."

"No, I don't! What the fuck do you have against me? I already told you, it's not my goddamn fight that you got your ass kicked. That was all Cartman."

"It's not just about the ass kicking, which, by the way, I do not buy your story about. You're the top fucking dog. Cartman respects your authoritah. He does not do anything that you have not approved. That's how your world works. I remember. And don't give me any bullshit about how you've changed that, because if I here those words come out of that gaping mouth of yours, I'm gonna fill the gap with my fist," I say, adding the last after his mouth opens to interrupt. He closes it, chagrined. I continue my verbal assault.

"I hate you because you're a traitor. My dad gets fired, and instead of my best friend offering to help me out, you threw me aside like yesterday's trash! You traded almost ten years of friendship for what? For a good fuck? For more touches in football? So you could be the shining star? You're a bastard, Kyle. A complete fucking bastard.

"Never once did you offer to help me out, help us out. Your family's obviously rolling in money, since you've been able to give me all these lavish fucking gifts lately, trying to atone for your asshattery, I assume. You could have asked if there was anything you or your parents could have done to help us out. I wouldn't have minded eating Kosher, knishes are better than motherfucking Ramen noodles and toast.

"What you did instead was you threw me out of your life for some inane, improbable to decipher reason, kept my friends away from me when I needed my friends the most, banished me to the outer fringes of scholastic society, prevented me from speaking for nearly three years on pain of beatings from your goon squad, and stole every award and accolade athletically that by every right should be mine. And now, you think you can just waltz back into my life, essentially bribing me, and just have me fall into your arms swooning like a doe-eyed schoolgirl in an anime? You're fucking delusional, you crazy faggot," I sneer, taking a long, long drag, and relaxing as the nicotine takes its effect on me.

"I'm not fucking delusional. I dropped you like a hot potato because I had to," Kyle says, grabbing my shoulders and making me look at him. "I had to get you away from me. It was only supposed to be for a little while, and then your dad got fired and I got an excuse, but it just got out of hand! It was never supposed to go on so long and get this bad, I swear to God!"

"Oh let me guess, it's because you woke up with a raging case of gay for me three years ago and wanted me away from you so you could try and get over it, and then when you got over it, you'd bring me back into the group? Way to fall down and hit every branch on the cliché gay teen story on the way down, Broflovski," I jump in, rolling my eyes at the hyper-sensationalized "sincerity" his eyes are projecting at me.

"Goddamnit, take this seriously!"

"OK, fine, fag-Broflovski is serious business. I'll comport myself in a more dignified fashion," I say, sniggering.

"You're being an ass again," Kyle complains. "Seriously. Just believe me, I didn't want you to be hurt, and I didn't want things to go down like this. I would have loved to be able to take my handoffs from you, and just bring you back after a few weeks or so and let everything go back to normal. I felt so fucking bad seeing you having to grow your hair out that long, being able to hardly see you at all at lunch, just hunched over all alone. I felt horrible seeing you walking in the mornings, visibly cold without hardly any protection from it during the winter, and riding the bus while I was driving my car. And I was almost sick when I saw you being beaten, and when I saw you after being beaten, and when I heard Cartman and everybody bragging about how good they'd gotten you."

I blink, already knowing where this is headed. That massive case of gay hasn't gone away at all, obviously. My mind was right, Friday. He's a raging homo. He wants to pin me to this wall and have his way with me, kissing, and quite probably butt-fucking me. And in no way am I going to let him do that to me. I won't let any man do THAT with me, and DEFINITELY not Kyle.

"I'm not going to listen to the rest of this," I say, dropping my cigarette butt on the bottom step and crushing it with my heel, shrugging Kyle's arms off me, and standing up. "I know where it's going, and there's no fucking way in hell am I going to let you do what you want to do. Ever. You can take your faggy desires and shove them up your asshole. Because I'm not going to submit to you, and there's nothing you can do to make me. No gift, no nice little heartfelt speech, and no goddamn sad pouty look can ever make me want to take your Jesus-killing fag cock up my ass. Fuck you, Broflovski. Fuck you all to hell," I sneer, stomping off towards the door.

"Stan! Stan, wait!" Kyle shouts, running after me. He catches me, of course, and pins me to the wall.

"You're such an asshole," he says, breathing heavily. "But I love you anyway." And then he clamps his mouth on mine.

**-.-**

**Notes: Hey guys! Look who's back with a cliffhanger! Yep, that's right, it's me! Sorry about the delay between chapters, but when I was hoping to write this before I left university for home, I didn't account for a massive lack of time and inspiration.**

**So I'm home now, with what will most likely be the only update in May. I start a new job on the 21****st****, and thus will lose 10 hours a day of writing time (8 hours plus travel time) per day, before overtime and weekend shifts. On the plus side, the pay is fucking fantastic, so…**

**Thanks so much to everyone who's reviewed this baby. We're getting into the really good part now, and it only gets better in terms of angst and anger in the next fifteen chapters. Let me know if you liked it!**

**Phoenix II**


	16. At School VI

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See prologue.**

**Summary: Stan makes a decision.**

**-.-**

_At School VI_

**-.-**

There's a lot of ways to describe being kissed. The emotions typically range from elation, to bliss, to tear-inducing happiness. But I don't think a kiss has ever been described as laugh-inducing. This, of course, means that I'm trailblazing, because as soon as Kyle pulls his lips off mine, the only thing I can do is laugh.

I laugh because it wasn't a good kiss to begin with. It was really sloppy, rushed, but tentative. I laugh because it's Kyle who kissed me. Kyle "I steal your girlfriend!" Broflovski. And I laugh because he said he loves me. Oh, boy do I ever laugh at that. It's not the mild chuckle when someone says something amusing, or laughter you find at a comedy club, no, this laughter is the kind you hear on sitcom laugh tracks: uncontrollable, gut-busting, tears-spilling-down-your-cheeks raucous laughter. It's not supposed to be this funny, but I can't help myself! KYLE BROFLOVSKI just told me he loves me. THE GUY admitted he wanted to bone another guy.

By the time I manage to clear my blurry eyes and look up at Kyle, his face is contorted into a combination glare and scowl that just _SCREAMS_ "WE ARE NOT AMUSED." I straighten up, still chuckling, and put an angry look on my face.

"Stay away from me, Bro-fag-ski," I growl, pushing him out of my path and stalking back into the school as the bell rings to send us to fifth period. I think he's so caught up in the testosterone of his rather spontaneous action he's not fully caught up to the fact that I didn't fall into line or kiss back.

Fifth period is, of course, P.E. And it absolutely amazes me that in the five minutes between his most embarrassing moment ever, Kyle seems to have recovered and as I'm changing into my gym clothes, I can overhear Craig ask him where he was at lunch.

"Eh, I had some shit to take care of, man," Kyle tells him, pretty much shrugging off the question while he shrugs on his shirt.

"Did it involve Marsh? Clyde saw you coming from where that hippie fag hangs out at lunch…"

"Nah, he wasn't there. Probably hiding so I didn't beat his ass." That lying fuckwit. Of course, his answer focuses on my ass…God fucking damn that fucking fag Jew. And those stupid cocksucking sycophants of his don't even have a goddamn clue. Except maybe Kenny. I think of all his friends, especially his inner circle, Kenny would be the one most likely to know that.

"Laps, men!" Coach yells, banging on the locker room door to let us know he wants us up in the gym in about 30 seconds. I scamper up the back steps and am halfway through my first lap by the time Kyle leads his posse in through the main door and breaking into a slow jog, knowing he won't get punished even though Coach wants us to all fully run those three laps. I speed up, not wanting to give Kyle the satisfaction of passing me, and if he wants to stare at my ass, why not give him something to stare at and make him jealous even more. Maybe he'll do something stupid like tackle me and start molesting me in front of everybody. I could take time off for the psychological trauma and spend it in my room laughing my ass off.

No luck on that end, but I do lap Kyle twice and finish all three my laps before he's halfway done with his second. I see him glare at me when I pass him, but since he's not getting his ass kicked by anyone, I can assume he didn't stare at what he wants but cannot have.

"Basketball. I'll count you off into four teams of three – ones will play threes, twos will play fours," Coach announces once we're all in the bleachers catching our breath, pulling a rack of balls from the equipment room. He then begins numbering us off by rows, starting of course with Kyle, who is a one, as are Wendy and Clyde. Because I have the luck of the most luckless person in the world, I'm a three, with a team of Kenny and Bebe. Essentially, it's going to be just me against Kyle and Clyde, because Wendy and Bebe are pretty much going to just gossip across the court, and Kenny's going to just ogle both of them. Now, Clyde's a linebacker, so his basketball skills are rather limited, but Kyle – as the star athlete – is a four-year letter winner on our basketball team, and a two-time first team All-State selection. And I wasn't that good at basketball to begin with. So…I suppose I'm just going to have to get my ass kicked. Or I could … hmm …

Yeah, that'll work. I'll flagrantly foul him. Then he'll get pissed and retaliate and I'm either going to end this period on the bench, in the principal's office, or in the nurse's office. Save myself some embarrassment and prevent me from doing something really stupid like a bump-and-grind when I'm boxing him out for a rebound. There's no way in hell he would construe that as something innocuous. He'd probably beat me in the head so he could have an excuse to drag me out of the gym and instead of taking me to the nurse, he'd take me to the boy's bathroom and sodomize me in an empty stall. He would. He's a giver like that.

"Let's get started, boys and girls!" Coach yells, bouncing basketballs to Kyle and Craig and blowing his whistle. I assume a defensive position as Kyle looks down the lane with a predatory grin in his eye, dribbling the ball and slowly advancing towards the hoop.

"Bring it on, Jew," I mutter to myself, immediately regretting that decision as he breezes by me for an easy lay-up. 2-0. He smirks as I grab the ball and head to the top of the key, Kyle following me to try and steal the ball away. I keep myself poised sideways, dribbling the ball with the hand that's furthest from him. Nevertheless, he gets it anyway, spins around, and drains a jump shot.

"Gonna have to try harder than that," he quips, as Clyde grabs the rebound and throws it back to Kyle, who flips it back to me. "Four-nil, Marsh." Angrily, I don't even bother dribbling, just put up a ill-considered three-pointer that lands two feet short of the rim, bouncing out of bounds before Clyde grabs it and tosses it to Kyle, who moves up to the top of the key to start play again.

"Such a shame it's not this easy to pound your ass off the court," he says. "Let me show you how it's done, Stanley dearest." Even while I bristle at his patronizing, he lets loose a three pointer that even I can't deny is perfect as it swishes through the net.

When I get the ball, I can't hold it in anymore. I smack the ball with one hand, holding it like I'm going to pass it to Kenny, who is – true to form – staring at Wendy and Bebe. But I have no intention of this ball ever reaching Kenny. I fling the ball out, and it smacks Kyle right in the face and knocks him on his back.

All activity in the gym ceases. Immediately. Even Coach is unable to speak, or interrupt as Kyle slowly gets back up, blood dripping from his nose and mouth as the ball rolls to a stop against the wall. If I hadn't fully thought this out before doing it, I would be cowering in fear and groveling for Kyle's forgiveness right now. And truth be told, I'm actually still a little afraid. Pissed-off Kyle is _not_ someone you ever want to meet. And yet, here I am, standing right in his path, not blinking, not flinching.

"What. The. _FUCK_. Was that?" he asks, and I don't even realize I've bent over backwards until I notice that Kyle's hair is halo'd by the fluorescent lighting of the gym.

"That was what it _LOOKED_ and _FELT_ like, Kyle _DEAREST_," I reply, acid literally dripping off every word. "Me telling you that you can take EVERY LAST THING about you, personally, athletically, scholastically, and anything-else-ally that I missed, and SHOVE IT up that ego-swollen ass of yours!"

"Hey!" Bebe interjects. "Leave that ass out of it!" We both just glare at her, before Kyle decks me, sending me to the floor, bleeding from the mouth and nose as well. By the time I get up, Coach has found his voice.

"Broflovski! Go to the nurse. Marsh! Bench! Testaburger, Stevens, McCormick, Harris! Two on Two, Men versus Women!" I head to the bench, tee-shirt soaking up my blood while Kyle glares at me before heading to the nurse. Wendy and Bebe shrug off Coach's instructions while Clyde and Kenny start playing HORSE.

While I'm waiting for the instruction to hit the showers, I hit on a plan that is absolutely perfect in its deviousness. And by the time I hone it to perfection during Science and Spanish, Cartman will be jealous of it. This will put anything he's ever done to shame. Shame, I say!

Those two periods can't pass fast enough. I'm absolutely and totally anxious to put it into effect. I have to dally a little past the dismissal bell, because of the nature of the plan, but that's alright. It's worth it. I stake out where I'm going to be waiting, and it's a simple matter of awaiting the arrival of Kyle, Cartman, Kenny, Craig, Clyde, Wendy, Token, and Butters. They'll be ready to leave at about 3:45 – why it takes them so long, I have no idea, but I'm not really objecting.

When I hear their approach, I hide away out of sight until they're halfway through the commons to the front door, where upon I let out an attention-getting whistle that brings their walking and talking to a halt. I come out of hiding, which surprises them considerably, probably because they're on their way to come harass me at work.

What surprises them even further is the way I approach them. Because it's not a normal approach. It's a sexy, hip-swaying saunter that's typically only utilized by supermodels and pornstars. And I'm honed in on one target in particular. Those between me and Kyle – which is all of them – get out of my way subconsciously and out of shock, allowing me to drape myself on his muscles, cup his face and lay a big, passionate kiss on him.

I start it lightly and deepen it quickly, escalating it to a point where I'm slipping my tongue in his mouth, and I tongue him like that for a good minute and a half before slowly peeling away. I note with satisfaction that his eyes are bugged out in surprise as I fully disengage and saunter unabated towards the exit, pushing it open before turning around, blowing a kiss at Kyle and giving a goodbye half-wave and mouthing "call me," before slipping out the door and running for it. He is gonna get his ass KILLED. I just outed him in the worst way possible.

No way can he ever live THIS down.

I am a FUCKING. GENIUS.

**-.-**

**Notes: Huh? Huh? How's THAT for revenge? It has been about a month since I left you hanging with that other kiss, and it nearly killed me to get this out so far. Especially considering I started this day at 5:30 AM, which is an hour I'm very much a stranger to. And, because of work, I probably won't get another chapter out until around the 15th of July.**

**Sorry for the wait, but I do hope this was worth it! Let me know, huh?**

**Phoenix II**


	17. At School VII

Perchance to Dream

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See Prologue**

**Summary: The aftermath is revealed.**

**-.-**

_At School VII_

**-.-**

To say walking into school the next day was like smack-dab into a brick wall of silence would be a little misleading. Because it wasn't a silent sort of silent, it was more of a hushed-whispers-only sort of silence. The kind that creates a sort of buzz that makes you think something's wrong with your ears. The kind that indicates either a tragedy, a disaster, a catastrophe, a calamity, or a tragic disaster, a disastrous catastrophe, a catastrophic calamity, or a tragic, disastrous, catastrophic calamity.

The whispers are so quiet and so numerous I can only pick up snippets of conversation here and there. But from what I can hear, and string together, they've found out about my little face-suck with Kyle. Anybody with any high school experience knows that word travels fast, and it travels twice as fast when it involves the head jock or the head cheerleader, and five times as fast if it involves both. Since Wendy was there yesterday, watching while I gave her boyfriend what was probably the best kiss of his life, this means Bebe knew within fifteen minutes, and from there, the entire student body knew within the hour.

Word of my own arrival spreads through the usual channels, and by the time I'm at my locker, Kyle's gang is turning the corner. But, quite to my surprise, Jew-fag himself is not leading them. No righteously indignant glare, no angry snarl on his face that just screams "beat-down imminent" to a guy, no raised fist ready to deliver a lip-busting first blow. Nothing at all but fatass Cartman swaggering about like he owns the place.

Of course, if I were Kyle and in this position, I wouldn't be there either. I would be hiding in my room, dying of embarrassment, and nursing a HELL of a bruise on my face, placed there by a pissed-off and/or betrayed girlfriend who can slap a guy with roughly the same force as an Austrian bodybuilder swinging a two-by-four. So, I won't really expect to see Kyle until next week. But judging by the rumors, Wendy is fuming pissed. I'll probably get slapped myself. I'm certainly not going to get a medal for what I did. It was low, underhanded, and just disgusting. I'll probably be going to Hell for it. Oh well. Kenny always raved about how kickass the parties were there. I suppose the décor's ok too, given that you've got a literal giant gay in charge down there. As long as there's air conditioning…

"Marsh," Cartman says in passing, giving me a good natured punch in the arm as he passes by. Judging by my reaction, you wouldn't be able to tell it was good-natured, though, since I reacted by falling face-first into my locker in surprise. Because THAT was not supposed to happen. Of all the possible things that could have come from my presence in school today, being greeted positively by Cartman and the jocks was nowhere near the top as far as plausibility. But considering the fact that getting shot in the face Dick Cheney style was ranked second in probability, and that any possibility of positive reaction was buried near the bottom of the five page list, beneath the equivalent of thirty eight full suitcases of bad reactions, what little Catholic spirit still burns within me is screaming that I need to be dropping to my knees and praising Jesus. The other 96 percent of me immediately shoots the Catholic part an angry glare and beat it up. It stops screaming, and I gather myself from the awkward sprawl of limbs and head to my first class.

It is utterly amazing how the jock crowd's attitude towards me has been changed over the past four or five months since I gave Wendy a, in my mind, at least, sarcastic message to give to Kyle. It makes a little more sense after what happened yesterday, but it's still pretty damn amazing. OK, so back then, the sports crowd was pretty much Kyle's domain, and if he wanted me to look good for his fag-tastic fapping fantasies, he just had to tell them to back off and they would obey his whims. But I can imagine now that I'm going to be treated pretty much as a hero by them. Sports is one of the most homophobic institutions you'll find outside of the Republican Party and the Bible/Torah/Koran-thumping crowd, and any time an athlete comes out of the closet, he's always ripped to shreds and denounced by everybody and their brother, including those who before would have considered him a close friend and even teammate. Jocks don't want to think about people staring at their junk and fantasizing about ass-raping them in the showers after games and practices. Now that they know Kyle is a flaming ass-rammer, what they've probably done is beat the shit out of him as punishment before ostracizing him just as permanently as I was.

As for me, as the outer, I'll be treated even more favorably than before, but I still won't be welcomed back into the fold. That most probably because I _was_, after all, the one who initiated yesterday's kiss, so it'll be treated more like a Judas-type situation. You don't exchange friendship with one fag for that of a supposed second. It would defeat the purpose of ending friendship with the first fag in the first place. But I didn't do it to get back in the guys' good graces in the first place…I didn't want that, and with only two months left in the school year, and the only sport left being baseball, there's no real point in re-joining the jock crowd anyway. I managed the last three years without those guys for friends, what's another two months? Nothing at all.

Halfway through first period, I get my first indication that Kyle is in fact, in school. All activity in my classroom suddenly halts and we all get very quiet at the sound of a LOUD smack of a yardstick against the chalkboard in the room next door. Someone's in trouble. Big, big trouble.

"BROFLOVSKI!" Mr. Snyder bellows. "WAKE THE FUCK UP!" Kyle's in school then…and apparently sleeping through his Economics class. His response to the shouting is inaudible – the walls are thin, but you can only hear people if they're shouting, like Mr. Snyder.

"YOU WERE SLEEPING. I HEARD YOU SNORING, DON'T GIVE ME ANY LIP!" Well, it stands to reason he wouldn't admit to sleeping in class, anyway. "IF YOU WEREN'T SLEEPING, BROFAGSKI, WHAT WERE YOU DOING WITH YOUR HEAD DOWN AND YOUR EYES CLOSED?"

I snicker. I'm the first one who called him that. I don't think anyone heard, but it's a logical permutation of his name once I threw him out of the closet, so I expect to hear it a lot more often. A lot more often than I expect to hear his actual name spoken.

"I THOUGHT SO. PROBABLY DREAMING OF FUCKING SOME MAN-WHORE LIKE MCCORMICK OR MARSH," Mr. Snyder continues, probably because Kyle either said nothing or said nothing and turned a very bright shade of red. I bristle at the implication that I'm getting ass-fucked on a regular basis, when in fact I'm still a virgin (through no fault of my own), but the fact that Kyle's getting chewed out and insulted in front of two entire classrooms makes me forgive Snyder the slight. I just won't invite him to my graduation party.

"GET YOUR DISGUSTING FAG ASS TO THE OFFICE. DETENTION FOR A WEEK!" he roars, and we hear his door open, a crash as Kyle is pushed out of the room and into a locker, and then the door slamming shut once more. Oh, this is just delicious.

"OK…" Ms. Young says, somewhat uncertainly. "Um…we were talking about the causes of the Great Depression…"

"People made stupid decisions in the Twenties. That's what caused the Depression. Just like people making stupid decisions in the first few years of this decade has made our economy go down the tubes," I say, wanting to just waste the remaining fifteen minutes of class basking in Kyle getting bitched out.

"…Thank you, Stan," she says. "Can you be more specific?"

"I could, but I don't want to. It's on page 359, if anyone else is interested," I remark, leaning back in the desk. Ms. Young is indignant, snapping at whatever unfortunate student meekly raises their hand to answer the question, scaring them all and causing the student –a girl or a tenor, by the sound of the voice, I'm not looking- to stammer out an answer about stock markets and credit.

For the rest of the morning, there's no trace of Kyle. I don't know how long he was made to stay in the office, though probably not long, because (thankfully) none of the rest of his morning classes are located anywhere near mine. I manage to get through my own classes without even thinking that much about the fag, and basking in my own glory. Plenty of _that_ to be done. I draw a nice happy scene with frolicking rabbits – I make sure to note that the rabbits are a male and a female – and sunshine with no clouds and plenty of green grass for my Art project of the day, in Math I breeze through a quiz and an in-class worksheet, and in English, I ace another quiz, this one on the characterization of Dickens' Oliver Twist.

Then comes lunch. And, I swear to God, when I walk into the cafeteria it is like I have died and gone to heaven. I even stay in there because of what I see. Well, partly because one can't really transport spaghetti and garlic bread, but also because of what I see as I take a seat over by the windows and dig in with gusto unrivaled by a football team at a pre-game pasta dinner.

Why am I not sitting in the dark corner I occupied for most of the past three years? Because the dark corner is already occupied. By a disgusted, sad, dazed-and-confused Kyle Broflovski, who looks like absolute hell. For starters, it doesn't look like he showered last night, his hair is all ratty and un-styled. Then there's the way he's dressed: he's got on a black hooded sweatshirt and some very garish yellow sweatpants. And as I suspected, he's got a whopper of a bruise on his left cheek. There's some evidence he – or more likely his mother – tried to use concealment cream on it this morning, but I can still see the glaring purple handprint on his face. He's got his head down, wondering what the hell happened to him over the past twenty-four hours. His head's probably spinning because he can't process all the action that's been thrown at him.

And I…am proud. Not ashamed of my disgusting actions that caused it; not a hint of pity directed towards my ex-best friend and would-be ass-rapist, just beaming pride with such a huge grin that has probably got people looking at me wondering if I've gone insane. A smile that is both happy and sinister, dangerous and just a small bit sexy at the same time.

"Stan?" Kenny asks, suddenly in front of me. "You want to come sit over with us? We've kind of got an empty spot…" Eat with the jocks…I must say it's a tempting offer.

"Just for lunch, right?"

"Yeah, just for lunch. At least until Cartman finds a freshman worthy of

'promoting' as he's calling it."

"Heh. Ken, can I ask you a question?" I ask as I get up to follow him over to the jocks' table.

"Sure. Shoot."

"Did I do the right thing by throwing Kyle out of the closet the way I did?" Kenny hisses as he breathes in, which concerns me.

"I'll say you did the right thing by outing him," Kenny said. "But the way you did…"

"The way he did was fucking awesome," Cartman says appreciatively as we arrive. "Fucking hell, Stan, I had no idea you were so devious. I always thought you were kind of a soft, liberal hippie-type fag. I don't think even I would have thought to do that!"

"Um, thanks, I guess," I say, a little uncomfortable as I start eating again. "Coming from you, I suppose, that's a giant compliment."

"Well thank you. Nice to know my genius is appreciated by some people. You gave us exactly what we needed to ruin the bastard…and finally get Wendy someone who deserves her."

"Oh?" I ask, internally bristling that apparently he feels I didn't deserve her either. "And who would that be?"

"Me," Kenny pipes in. "And I'm not sure if you know Stan, but if you don't, I'll give you a tip: always pick up depressed girls. Pity sex and rebound sex are fucking awesome." There are hoots and hollers of encouragement from the rest of the table, and Kenny gets more than a few high-fives.

"Thanks for the advice," I say deadpan. "I'll keep it in mind when I'm bar-hopping…always look for the depressed ones."

"Yeah man, they look unhappy but you get 'em in the sack and they get wild and crazy REAL fast. As long as you don't mind hearing some other guy's name a few times while you're doin' her," Kenny says, and the noise starts up again. I finish up my meal and get up to dump my trash and return my tray.

"Hey, guys, thanks for letting me sit with you, and Ken, thanks again for the advice, but I need to pop out back. I'm getting a little short on time here, and I need to have a cig before class starts back up. See ya 'round," I say.

"What if Brofagski bothers you?" Craig asks. "He knows where you'll be, after all."

"Worry not," I answer. "I know just how to deal with horny fags after my ass," I say on my way out, glaring at Kyle, who's just staring blankly at the wall. I'm not entirely sure if he knows I'm looking at him. I hope he's not.

I have my cigarette, and finish it just in time to apply my Axe before the bell rings to shepherd us to fifth period. Kyle doesn't bother me. I hope to God this lasts. I hope to fucking hell this lasts.

Probably won't, though.

**-.-**

**Notes: Heh. OK. Well, at least it's before August 15****th****. That counts for something, right? Seriously, I'm SO sorry this thing was so damn late. But like I expected, my work left me almost ZERO time for doing anything related to writing (the fact that I was working three of the last five weekends helped absolutely NONE), as when I got home I just had enough time to get on the Internetted computer, check my e-mail and chat.**

**But now that I'm done with that, I decided to dedicate myself to updating this lovely story before I head back to college, and also before everybody who was reading this and has it alerted forgot it even existed. I'm thinking about all of you…**

**And please, even if you're very angry with me, think this update is the worst chapter in this entire fic (as I do), let me know!!**

**Thanks,**

**Phoenix II**


	18. At Work VI

Perchance to Dream

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See Prologue**

**Summary: What effect does life not sucking quite so much have on Stan's work?**

**-.-**

_At Work VI_

**-.-**

"What's got you so happy?" Greg asks as I walk into Jumpin' Java, apparently with a visible spring in my step. At least I'm not whistling a jaunty tune. He'd probably think I'm high.

"Oh, nothing," I reply, calming down as I walk over to the counter. "I just ruined my arch-nemesis' life." And his reputation, and probably a half-dozen other things. Like his chances of getting to go to Prom, much less winning Prom King for the second straight year, his chances of getting a collegiate sports scholarship, his chances of inheriting anything from his mother when she dies, all those things.

"Oh. Well good for you. Now get back here so I can study, lest my arch-nemesis ruin _my_ life." His arch nemesis _this_ month being, to hear him tell it, a sadistic Microeconomics professor spawned from Satan's bowels, who has now announced that he is adding an exam to their class, on the same topics that Greg has already written a paper he received a bad grade on, so naturally he's not thrilled he's now going to have an exam on it. In reality, the guy's probably just got a shitty home life and is in danger of losing tenure, so he's started teaching a couple extra night classes to try and save his job, and naturally he needs his students to perform better than the level Greg has been.

"Sure thing, boss," I say, hopping over the counter and getting ready to serve my classmates and random old people.

It doesn't take long for the first of them to arrive – Craig. He was one of the football team's wide receivers, so needless to say Kyle probably smacked his ass frequently for good plays made. Now that he knows The Truth, he's probably disgusted, and I bet he spent a long time in a very hot shower last night, along with Token, the quarterback, Kenny, the tight end (oxymoron, I know), and Clyde, the fullback. Hell, the whole team, probably. Ass-patting is common amongst athletes, so everybody on the football team AND the basketball team probably spent a long time with hot water and Lava soap trying to wash off germs that have been there for three years in most cases.

"Hi Craig, what can I getcha?" I ask, enthusiastically.

"Cappuccino. Decaf. No cream." He speaks in short, staccato phrases, indicating he's either still traumatized, or that there's a very good reason he wants it decaf.

"That'll be –" I start to say, but am interrupted by Craig placing a 10 bill on the counter. I make change and give him his coffee, letting him scamper off to decaffeinate before he turns into Tweek.

"Have a nice day!" I say as he retreats. He flips me off. Well, he IS Craig…pretty much par for the course for him to flip me off. I'm not going to take it to heart and hold a grudge about it.

"Next?"

Next is Bebe, who is either in on her way to a street corner or a boyfriend's house. Her skirt redefines the term micro-miniskirt, and if the top was any smaller she might as well not wear one at all. It's already very apparent she's not wearing a bra.

"Hey hot stuff, Whatcha selling?"

"Uhm, coffee?" I venture, confusedly wondering why someone would go into a coffee shop and ask what they sell.

"I _know_ that, she says patronizingly, "What _kind_ of coffee?"

"We've got Colombian, Kenyan, Roast Arabica, Hazelnut, even a blend made with chocolate covered beans."

"Oooh, I'll have that!" she says enthusiastically. "I mean, I totally know I shouldn't, cuz it'll make me fat, but I want chocolate coffee, damnit. I've never had it before." I smile politely on the outside, but my inner-self is rolling his eyes non-stop. He's going to get dizzy if he keeps this up, but the way he's going at it, he doesn't seem to care.

"Anything else, or just the one cup of coffee?" I ask.

"Uhm…ah, what the hell, I want a blueberry muffin too," she says, digging out her pocketbook from her purse/bag thing.

"OK. 7.50." She fishes around in the pocketbook while I go get her coffee and muffin. She gives me a ten dollar bill and a piece of paper, winks at me, and kisses me on the cheek before flouncing out. On the piece of paper is what I presume is her cell-phone number. I take the 2.50 in change she gave to me with the wink and drop it in my pocket, somewhat flattered that I'm getting attention from a hot chick, briefly wondering if Bebe is a fag hag before pushing all thoughts aside and focusing on serving Kenny.

"Hey Kenny," I say friendly-like. "Two coffees?"

"Well, one regular coffee for me, but Wendy needs something girly…can't quite remember what she told me."

"Too busy staring?" I ask with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

"You caught me," is his response, delivered without a trace of shame.

"Well, she's getting a mocha frappuchino with skim milk, whipped cream, and cinnamon. Plain coffee for you, right, Ken?"

"Yeah, just the basic stuff," Kenny confirms as I turn to make Wendy's drink. It sounds like something she'd want. And if not, she can just kill Kenny and get her own coffee.

"Six thirty-eight," I tell him, bringing both cups back to the counter. Kenny too hands me a ten, but he doesn't kiss me or wink at me, and takes his change when I offer it.

"Later, Stan!" he says, cheerfully exiting the store.

Service is slow for the next few hours, and by 8, the store is pretty much empty. All the tables have been wiped down twice, coffee's been organized, cash has been counted twice, and Greg's been swearing since 6. I've been sniggering while I read some old guy's Reader's Digest he left behind, wishing Bebe had stayed to drink and forgotten her latest edition of Cosmo…at least, for the only good part of that magazine, the sex tips. Who knew popsicles and aloe vera could be used like that?

Of course, to spoil my fun thinking about kinky things I could maybe do if I were to hook up with Bebe, who else but Kyle could walk through the door and ring the bell? He still looks like shit, and now that I see him walking I can notice a slight limp. Now, whether it's from getting the shit kicked out of him by the team, or from getting thrown out of Mr. Snyder's class this morning, I can't tell, but he is definitely limping for some reason or another.

"What do you want?" I snap, and he flinches, approaching the counter with his head down and mumbles something.

"What?" I ask, puzzled, forcing him to look up at me with a scowl.

"I said I want a caramel latte."

"Oh. Four bucks." Kyle gives me a five. I give him a dollar and make him his latte, then go back to reading my magazine. After I finish the article about using zucchini as part of a weightlifting regimen, I look up to find him still standing there. I don't even think he's moved.

"What?"

"Can we talk?" he asks quietly.

"No, we cannot," I say, turning the page to something about brown sugar and apples.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Stan, don't give me the 'I'm working' excuse," he says, clearly exasperated by keeping his voice level. "You're clearly not. Unless your job description says 'Serve coffee, make change, and read old people's Reader's Digest's'?"

"Weeeeeeeell…" I say, drawing out the 'e' and skipping over to a cover story about the weakening dollar.

"Oh stop it. Why do you never want to talk to me?" His voice is a mix of sarcasm, anger, and frustration.

"Well, for starters, you're a douche, a fag, an asshole…lessee…oh yeah, you want to ass-rape me, send me to Hell, and bribe me into doing both. I think that last one's a crime, actually. I should call the cops on you. They'd love you in prison." Kyle's scowling again. Well, actually, he's graduated from a scowl to a glower. Not that either fazes me anymore. He has about as much power as a dead cell battery.

"Fuck you. I don't know why I even bother."

"I don't either. So quit bothering."

"No."

"Well now look who's being uncooperative?" I simper, glaring back at him. "Quit bothering me. I'm never going to let you win me over. You betrayed me three years ago, and I'll never, EVER, forgive you for that, so you can just forget any thoughts of me consenting to being your bitch. My ass is off-limits, no-entry, exit-only. Now take your coffee and get out."

"But –" Kyle tries to interject as I force the latte cup into his hand and lean over the counter to turn him around.

"No buts. Have fun with your gayness, and life, and stuff. Forget to write, don't call, bye bye!" I say glibly, giving him a push towards the exit.

"I'm not done talking yet!" he protests, having to grab onto a table to keep from falling when his gimp leg threatens to give way.

"You may not be done talking, but I'm done listening to it. All it's going to be is a bunch of weepy 'woe is me, my homo crush won't let me rape him, sob sob tears tears. Go to hell and leave me alone!" I exclaim in frustration, turning around on my little stool and reading about why globalization is going to ruin my life. Well, if it wants to ruin my life, I wish it luck. This whole outing-Kyle business has been the only ray of sunshine in three years of overcast skies.

"Stan, Goddamnit," I hear from behind me as he strains to get up. "Why can you not just see that it's in your best fucking interest to just give in? Especially after that fucking stunt you pulled to out me. You just made your social life even WORSE for yourself!"

"Right," I reply. "So the fact that everyone's behaving like they were before this all happened is a COMPLETE coincidence."

"What are you talking about?" he asks, puzzled.

"They don't hate me," I say with a shrug. "Don't ask me why not, I dunno, but I guess me Frenching you is better than you molesting them. And they appreciate what I did."

"Those fuckers," Kyle spits, completely incensed that my beatings haven't worsened for what I did to him. "Welcoming you back…even though Cartman thinks you're a fag?"

"Oh, Cartman complimented me. Now go wallow in your own emo. We're through talking," I say. "I've got to finish up before I can go home, and I need to study for a Math quiz. You're wasting my time."

"This isn't over," Kyle promises, before stalking out. Again with the intimidation tactics. I guess it's going to take him a while to figure out that nobody's scared of a fairy. No matter how much they were before they found out he was a fairy. Soon we'll see photomanips of him in dresses and girl's clothes. That'll be fun.

As long as people don't start thinking we're all of a sudden boyfriends. That kiss, as far as I'm concerned, was a one-off. It'll never happen again, because I don't want to spend the money on the entire bottle of Listerine it took me to get all the Jew germs and fag germs and Jew-fag germs out of my mouth from the last time.

He'd fucking better leave me alone if he knows what's good for him.

**-.-**

**Author's Notes: What epic fail. This is DEFINITELY the worst chapter of anything I've ever written. But it does serve a few purposes, crappy as it is. Amazing that this story is still building just when you thought I'd built everything already, right? Well, the framework's up, but we've still got to do some work on the interior before the structure's complete. Still a few plot threads to introduce before we can begin to resolve them.**

**In other news, this fic is within 2 reviews of becoming my most reviewed fic. Which pleases me, since it's pretty much most-everything else already. We should now be getting into a semi-regular schedule of once-a-month updates from now until the semester break in December.**

**Cheers,**

**Phoenix II**


	19. At School VIII

Perchance to Dream

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See Prologue**

**Summary: Kyle's fall, and Stan's rise, continues.**

**-.-**

_At School VIII_

**-.-**

For the first time since I was a freshman, I've looked forward to attending school lately. Cartman hasn't found a freshman replacement for Kyle yet, so I've spend the last two weeks eating at the jock's tables at lunch. They've even stayed at Jumpin' Java in groups until closing, which has kept Kyle away, me busy, and money flowing into Greg's bank account, and every other Friday, into my bank account.

The only times I even saw Kyle anymore was at lunch, when he would sullenly sit in the dark corner I had occupied for so long, dressed like a hobo and picking at whatever was for lunch. He'd tried to talk to me a couple times during my lunchtime smokes, but after I told Cartman it was bothering me, it stopped. Now, I assume he was beaten within a few inches of his life, but I can't be certain, nor would I care even if I could be.

They gave me an unadorned letterman's jacket a week ago, and I've started wearing it to blend in more when I hang out with them at lunch. It gives me a sense of purpose and belonging that I've been lacking for quite some time now. Of course, it's hard to feel like you belong when, on days like today, there's nobody in the halls. Of course, there is an interesting din coming from the gym, so I think I'll go check that out. From the sound of it, there's at least a hundred people there.

Scooting down through the Science wing, and around past the trophy cases in the Commons area, I make my way into the gymnasium to a truly astounding sight. It looks almost like someone started an impromptu rugby game and they're in the middle of a scrum. And on the bottom of that scrum, being whaled on by the Cartman, Craig, Token, Clyde, Kevin and – to my shock – Butters, is Kyle. I can see his tangled red hair poking out, but not much else. He looks like he's taking quite a beating, assuming that red puddle Kevin is kneeling in is, in fact, blood.

"Stan!" I hear Kyle shout from underneath the pile. Apparently he can see me, even though I can't see him. Everything quiets down, and every eye in the room turns uncomfortably on me as the guys step off him enough to let me stare Kyle down. From what I can see of him, which is now just his head, he's gotten his nose busted and both lips split open.

"Stan, help me!" Kyle pleads, and I stare at him, hopefully without pity. I can't tell, I don't have a mirror.

He's gotta be off his rocker if he thinks I'll help him. Why would I first risk losing all I've won back these past couple weeks in a six-on-two fight with my strong athlete buddies, and second, get beat up myself by said strong athlete buddies for someone I don't like?

"You gonna come help your butt-buddy out, Stan?" Heidi asks, rather discouragingly. Her question is then parroted by a few other girls, the Goth kids, and a few freshmen. The guys glare at me questioningly, Kyle looks at me pleadingly.

I shrug, and scoff. "I don't care what you do with Brofagski. He's not my problem, and he's NOT my butt-buddy, Heidi!" I say, directing the last remark at the red-headed girl who insinuated Kyle and I were actually fucking.

"Stan?" Kyle asks, confused.

"Keep going, guys," I say, taking a peek at my watch. "You've still got…a good twenty minutes before class starts, plenty of time to beat on him a little more." That said, I turn around and head off to the cafeteria to grab a quick breakfast before classes start. I grin a little as a loud smack indicates the beating has resumed behind me.

There's no trace of the incident after first period, where I have to quickly remind Cartman to wipe some of Kyle's blood off his knuckles before the teacher walks in. He grins at me as he does so. The rest of the morning passes by without any mention or sight of Kyle. I don't mind, it keeps me free to think about much more appealing things. Like frolicking rabbits, sunny fields of clover, and roller coasters.

At lunchtime, though, things predictably unravel, mainly because I catch a glimpse of Kyle. They really worked him over this morning. His face is three different colors, his clothes are varying shades of red and purple, and he looks like someone just shot his dog, then ran it over, set it on fire, pissed on the ashes, and then made him lick it off the pavement. Part of me pities him. The rest of me reminds that part that Cartman and his gang had done just as bad to me for the past three years, and gay puppy love aside, Kyle had no pity for me while I was undergoing crude facial reconstruction.

Interrupting my berating of myself, Cartman smacks me upside the head.

"Ey! Quit staring at the fag Jew, Marsh. He's not in any condition to fuck your ass anyway, trust me. Notice how he's limping sort of?" Cartman asks, forcing me to pay more attention to Kyle's walking habit as he moves over to the dark corner. There is a definite limp there.

"Yeah, I see it," I say. "What'd you do, sit on his leg Fatass?"

He glares at me. "No, moron, I sat on his leg and punched him five times in the nuts!"

I grin at him. "Did he scream?"

He grins back, viciously. "Like a girl."

"Yeah, seriously, it sounded like a girl by the third or fourth punch," Clyde jokes, proceeding to fake-scream in falsetto like he's being stabbed that has everybody who'd been in the gym this morning dissolving into laughter. I sneak a glance over to the dark corner to see Kyle bury his head in his arms in shame, because everyone is laughing at Clyde's imitation of him.

Once everyone has calmed down, I tap the table with my pack of cigarettes to let them know I'm heading outside before class. With a dismissive wave, they let me leave and get back to talking about what they're going to do next to the Jew fag, and I distinctly don't remember Cartman making any mention of shoving a golf ball up his exhaust pipe.

I only barely get my smoke lit and to my lips before my solace is broken by someone "Psst"-ing at me. How juvenile.

"Psst! Stan, over here!" Gee, three guesses who that could be.

"No, Kyle," I say, continuing to stare straight ahead. "You wanna talk to me, get your ass over here and fucking talk to me." A few puffs later, I feel a weak punch on my shoulder.

"What the fuck was that about earlier?" Kyle hisses in my ear as I recoil.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I ask, scorn evident in my voice.

"The '_I don't care what you do with Brofagski_' shit!" he exclaims, clearly displeased. "They were beating the shit out of me! Cartman –"

"Sat on your leg and punched you in the nuts five times, I've heard," I interrupt, with ever-deepening scorn. "Hence, the limp you've got going there. Pansy. I never limped."

"Ya know, that's another thing that's making me mad about all this," he starts off. "You knew exactly what they were doing, and you STILL did nothing!"

"Well neither did you!" I snap back. "You never did anything to stop the beatings they put on me, which were a LOT worse than what you just got back there, to be frank. I would have two thirds of the defense sitting on me and the rest punching and kicking me. You had six people and you're whining like a little five-year-old girl about how much it hurt. Bitch you don't even know the meaning of the word pain."

"Oh and I suppose YOU do?"

"Compared to you? Yes! Like I would have been any good against any of them but Butters in the first place, get real," I retort. "You'd already been on the bottom of that pile for probably a good ten minutes before I even got there. You'd have been useless to me anyway, so what would have happened is that we would have BOTH gotten our asses kicked, and it would have done nothing to help either of us."

"Wrong," Kyle says. "It would have helped me, and it would have helped you."

"How, exactly, Brofagski?" I ask. "How does it help me to give Heidi evidence that we're butt-buddies, which we are _NOT_ and _NEVER WILL BE_? How does it HELP me by punching my re-found friends?" At this point I can't keep staring straight forward anymore, and I swing my head around and stare at him accusingly. "What fucking benefit do I get out of doing something stupid like that, Broflovski?"

He's unsurprisingly unable to meet my gaze and stares down at his shoes, and mumbles something.

"What was that? I don't think I heard what you said."

"I…it wouldn't," he says, sighing in defeat.

"Exactly. No benefit for me, so why do it?"

"To show you care about me?" he asks, his voice suddenly small and lacking any bluster.

"Right," I say, nodding along like it totally makes sense, the nonsense he's babbling. Except you're forgetting the bit where I don't care about you one tiny bit." 

He looks a little more crestfallen, but tries again. "Because it's what a decent human being would do?"

"Oh fuck you," I say. "You're not going to guilt trip me into helping your fucking pussy ass in the future. If not helping you all of a sudden makes me some sort of sub-human scumbag, then by damn, I'm gonna be the happiest sub-human scumbag on Earth."

"GOD YOU SUCK!" Kyle shouts, and limps off. I chuckle and finish my smoke before heading back inside.

Kyle's forced to run extra laps for "dragging behind" because of his limp in P.E., and is then yelled at for delaying the class activity, while everybody else sniggers behind their hands. He's forced to play in goal for soccer because he can't run or kick, but my team still gets plenty of goals because he can't even move to block shots. There's no love lost between him and his team after class, either, since they lose 10-3.

It's all and all a really good day, through the final bell. After that, I do my usual go-to-my-locker, get-my-work-clothes, change-clothes-in-the-bathroom routine, where I find the icing on the cake of this day.

As I'm going about my usual strip-and-switch, I hear a sniffling from the last stall in the row. Of course, having been in that position, I'm not going to pry, but it's not my fault that I can overhear what the guy's saying.

"H-he…," sniff, "said he loved me, in the DA's office, when we got justice for Indy…, sniff, "what happened to him?"

Kyle. Crying. Because I don't love him. Oh, can life get any better? I don't THINK so! I have to contain myself from laughing while I finish up, but as soon as I'm safely out of the bathroom, I start chortling and I don't stop until I'm five blocks away from Jumpin' Java.

I remember what he was talking about. For fuck's sake, we were NINE! If he's treating that as an admission of feelings for him, he's fucking crazy. I was supporting him and trying to help him get over Indiana Jones being raped by those two psycho movie directors. I loved him as a friend back then, but still. NINE YEAR OLD BOYS do not have gay feelings for each other. Nine year olds don't even know what gay feelings mean. Beyond the fact that they make your transgendered teacher absolutely batshit crazy, but they don't know or act on any feelings.

Outside of coercion or pedo shit, nine year old boys don't kiss nine year old boys. I didn't love-love Kyle then, I never have, and if he thinks I did then, he deserves the beatings he's getting. He deserves them like the prison sentences Spielberg and Lucas got for all the rapes they committed.

This is the best day yet!

**-.-**

**Notes: Happy first birthday, PtD! The first and hopefully only. The story isn't going to be 40 chapters as I originally planned, because honestly, that's way too long, and at one update a month, it would take me nearly two more years to finish. I would be out of college by then, and I do NOT want to be writing this story for that long, as much as I love it.**

**In other news…I'm glad I've gotten this story to be my most reviewed and my most viewed now. I hope y'all will keep reading until the end.**

**Cheers!**

**Phoenix II**


	20. Elsewhere III

**Perchance to Dream**

**-.-**

**Disclaimer: See Prologue**

**Summary: Blowback: the unintended consequences of an action that harm the perpetrator of the action.**

**-.-**

_Elsewhere III_

**-.-**

"You're being a dick," Wendy says, slamming her hands down on the counter at Jumpin' Java and instantly bringing an eerie quiet to the place.

"Excuse me?" I ask, startled. What brought this on?

"You heard me," she answers, somewhat quieter, leaning over the counter to get in my face. "You're being a dick. We need to talk. Now." Her tone tells me there's no other option available to me.

"Fine. Back alley, two minutes," I say, grimacing. Wendy turns away and heads out the front door, and I head to the back room to get Greg back out front while I deal with whatever stick is up Wendy's ass right now.

Unsurprisingly, she's waiting for me in my smoking alcove by the time I get out the back door. Even though I'm _maybe_ thirty seconds late, she's impatiently tapping her toes, with her arms crossed and a very pissy expression on her face.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" I ask, tapping out a cigarette and lighting up, taking a drag before Wendy unceremoniously snatches it from between my lips and crushes it beneath the heel of her thigh-high boot.

"Oh no you don't. First off, that's disgusting, and second, I don't want you derisively blowing smoke in my face just because you don't like what I'm going to tell you. Kyle's told me just how disgusting that is, and I'm not going to stand for it."

"Oh God," I groan. "He can't even fucking talk to me himself? Now he's sending his ex-girlfriend after me? How the hell does that work? I thought you hated him."

"Oh I did," she says, with a curt nod. "I did. I mean, I always had my suspicions, because he was way too caring and considerate to be totally on the straight and narrow, but I never really figured he would be after _you_, of all people."

"What the fuck do you mean, me, of all people?" I ask, more than a little anger seeping into my voice. "Love knows no boundaries, it doesn't just happen between people of the same fucking social status, Miss Homecoming Queen/Cheerleading Captain."

"That's not what I meant," she replies with a glare. "What I mean is, you don't exactly seem like his type."

"Good! Someone sees it! Tell _him_ that!" I say, wildly gesturing in the direction of Kyle's house. At least, I think that's the direction it's in. I'm not entirely sure anymore.

"The problem is, you're not the guy he fell for in the first place. He's still in love with Stan-of-three-years-ago," Wendy tells me, taking a seat on one of the crates near the bottom of the alcove.

"Well I hate to burst his little puppy-love bubble, but Stan-of-three-years-ago doesn't exist anymore. He's dead. Froze to death, I believe," I reply, leaning back against the wall and trying to treat this as nothing more than a quasi-friendly chat. At least we haven't come to blows. Hopefully we won't.

"Obviously," Wendy retorts sarcastically. "Stan-of-three-years-ago would never have sauntered like a fucking pornstar leaking rainbows out of his distended asshole to lay a brain-searing kiss on the secretly-closeted King Jock in front of his friends, teammates, and girlfriend."

I gape at her fairly foul-mouthed description of my plan to out Kyle, choking back laughter. "WHAT!? Leaking rainbows out of my asshole!?"

"You heard me," she says. "But that was a fucking lowlife, scumbag thing to do. If you're going to out him, out him, but it wasn't fucking necessary at all to rip the closet door off its hinges, yank him out, and then bludgeon us all with the door. Kyle's not the only person whose life you ruined that day, Stanley." Ooh, full name, she's pissed at me.

"Look, if you're just pissed off because your dreams of having little Kosher love-nuggets have been dashed, you can go blog about it on LiveJournal while you listen to Death Cab for Cutie and My Chemical Romance. I don't care to hear it."

"It's not just about me, asshole!" she shouts, and all of a sudden she's looming over me. "Or Kyle. You ruined everybody's life that day. You changed the entire school hierarchy THREE MONTHS ahead of schedule! We hadn't even gotten the transition committee established yet, and now we have to do it with CARTMAN as interim leader of the jock clique, which is going to make MY job transitioning the cheerleading squad ten times harder, because of the imprint the Lardass is going to leave on next year's Jock King! Poor Kyle's getting his ass kicked every day, the entire cafeteria seating arrangements have had to be rearranged because of you eating with the jocks now at lunch, did you even stop to THINK about the ramifications of your actions, Stanley!?"

"Listen, Wendy, and listen good. If you think I give two shits about your precious clique society, you can go lay in the middle of the road and wait for a car to run you over. I didn't stop to think about the impact it would have on your party planning and prom plans because, frankly, I don't give a damn. They're not my problem, they haven't been my problem, and if you're having trouble dealing, blame Kyle. If he'd been open from the start, we wouldn't be having this fucking mess!" I shout back, and she flinches a bit from the loudness.

"Stan, for fuck's sake. You're acting like a four-year-old, and it's ridiculous. Kyle is a _good guy_. I dated him for three goddamn years, I think I know a little bit about his upsides. I'll grant you that he fucked you over, but it's nowhere near as bad as what you're doing to him." She's getting frustrated with me; losing her cool. Not to mention I think we've actually gotten to the topic she wanted to talk to me about anyway.

"Oh really? Did I stand by and allow my former best friend to freeze to death while subsisting on a diet of ramen noodles and hot chocolate while I slept in a cozy 72 degree house? Did I force my ex-BFF to stand in the cold waiting to ride the bus to school while I drove my cherry-red sports car with heated leather seats to school? Have I orchestrated debilitating beat-downs on Kyle? Tried to buy his affection with expensive gifts? Did I do any of that, Wendy?" I ask, mocking her assertion that what I've done and am doing to Kyle is worse than what Kyle did to me.

"Did Kyle break your heart when he threw you out of the group?" she asks in return. "Because you're breaking his each and every time you say the hateful things you've been saying, every time you stand by and encourage the guys to beat him, every time you throw away or pawn of a gift he's giving you…"

"You're not going to get me with the bleeding-heart shit, Wendy," I interrupt, wishing more and more she hadn't taken away my cigarette. "Old Stan would have been groveling at your feet begging for forgiveness, and practically spreading his legs begging for Kyle to physically express his love. But me? I could care less whether Jewboy's heart shatters into a million pieces."

She deflates. "Fine," she says, getting out of my personal space. "But don't blame me when you end up a lonely old miserable night janitor at Wal-Mart, because it's your pigheaded choices that are standing between brooding jackass you, and at least a chance at having a decent life. Bye, Stanley." She stalks off, and I immediately snatch a cigarette from my pocket and light it up. I'm going to need a beer when I get home, too.

Why in God's name is Wendy cheerleading for Kyle anyway? Last time I checked, she was just as raging pissed at him for being a closet fag-case as anybody else in school or even in town. I can't really see what he could have possibly said or done to persuade her to stop hating him and start trying to persuade me into not just turning gay, but turning gay to submit to ass-poundings from fucking KYLE.

Hopefully I've shown her how futile of an effort THAT's going to be. She'd be better off wasting her time choosing a new cheerleading captain and doing all that "Senior Transition" shit she was bitching about. Like school social life NEEDS to be that scripted and choreographed. Can't a kid just be a kid anywhere outside of Chuck E. Cheese's anymore?

As I'm heading back in, Greg corrals me and tells me to clean up. He apparently just got a call from his mother telling him his father's in the hospital, and he feels the need to close down early and go be with him three counties over. Fine by me, it just means I get my beer sooner.

By the time I get out front, everybody has dispersed. Apparently Greg announced the closure already. I straighten up the cups, mop up the little spills and toss out all the leftover coffee, clean the tables and straighten the chairs, turn out the lights and am on my way. It's a little chilly for April, but not too bad as I head down Main Street, passing more than a few high school girls prom-dress shopping. As I pass the hardware store, I find myself suddenly yanked into the alley between it and the drugstore, pressed up against the brick wall, and kissed.

Now, I do a funny thing when I'm kissed. I don't know if anybody else does, or how many if some do, but when I'm kissed I close my eyes. So, I'm being pressed against this wall being kissed by someone whose tongue is begging entrance into my mouth, and I don't have any idea who it is. Whoever my mystery kisser is, she's damn quick, and strong to have dragged me back here this fast. I relax a little and let the probing tongue in, letting myself be kissed silly while I try to figure out who it is. Freeing my hands, I start feeling up my kisser.

I freeze when, while moving my hands across the face, they brush stubble. My eyes snap open and are greeted by tangled red hair dangling in the face of someone with a big nose. I'm being kissed by Kyle. God DAMNIT! I shove him off me and punch him in the stomach.

"What the fuck!?" I yell, wiping my contaminated mouth furiously and mentally making note to drink THREE beers. "You are really starting to get on my fucking nerves, Brofagski."

"Don't start that Brofagski shit on me, Stan," Kyle says, glaring at me. "You fucking liked that."

"I thought you were a girl!"

"Bullshit," Kyle spits. "A girl who can pluck you off the street and have her lips on yours in about five seconds?"

"They let girls be ninjas now!"

"Right. And you figured there was a girl ninja in South Park who all of a sudden wanted to jump your bones, so you decided 'What the hell, let's roll with it'?"

"Exactly!"

"Even Fatass isn't that dumb, Stan. Why can't you just admit you liked being kissed by a guy?"

"I don't like being kissed by you, Goddamnit!" I retort. "I'd rather kiss a Wookie."

"I still have my Chewbacca costume," Kyle says, waggling his eyebrows at me suggestively. I think I want to vomit.

"That's sick! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Oh lessee…" Kyle says, leaning casually against the wall and starts ticking off items on his fingers. "I'm gay, I'm Jewish, I'm diabetic, I'm in love with a Christian boy, he doesn't love me back, I don't have any friends because he threw me out of the closet, he's in denial…I've got more, if you wanna take a seat."

"I am not in denial!" I say, looking just as incensed as I feel.

"Oh please," Kyle says. "Oh yeah, one more for the list, he's a closet case."

"I'm not a fucking closet case! I don't even use my closet. It's still got Tom Cruise germs!"

"See, that right there. You're a total rainbow child."

"How is not wanting whatever brain-consuming parasites have eaten Tom Cruise evidence I'm gay?"

"Because if you weren't gay, you wouldn't care about Tom Cruise's cooties."

"Maybe I'm just a germophobe!" Even as we're having this argument, I can't help but feel like I'm back in kindergarten. Except, if we were back in kindergarten, I would be sticking out my tongue and pouting at this point. If I did that here, he'd probably rape me.

"Or maybe you just can't admit to yourself that you want me to make sweet love to you!"

"There's nothing to admit! I don't want you to make sweet love to me! I don't love you, I can't stand you, I'm disgusted by the fact that you love me, and at this point, the only thing I _do_ love is the pleasure I get from watching you see how it feels to be reviled by people who you thought were your friends."

Kyle glares at me. "You're a cold bastard, Stanley."

"Thanks for the compliment," I say, and head out of the alley for home. My agenda for the rest of the night now includes dates with four beers and two cigarettes.

God _DAMN_ do I ever hate Kyle!

**-.-**

**Notes: OK, here's the next chapter! And relatively quick, considering, eh? Well, there are a couple reasons I got this one out so quickly. First, I was struck by a spark of inspiration that told me it would be a really good way to start this chapter by having Wendy and Stan argue about Stan's recent streak of douchebaggery. Partly because I hadn't done a lot with her to this point, and partly because I noticed that a lot of you are unhappy with the way he's behaving.**

**Second, I wanted a chance to gloat further about the victory of Barack Obama, and decided why not do something to commemorate it than update your fic and put a note in so that you can remember when you put this chapter out?**

**And third, I honestly had nothing better to do with my afternoon than write, and this story is begging for attention, though it does have to compete with four or five other original stories I'm working on.**

**That's all I've got for now. Maybe we'll see another update at the end of the month, but at the least, it'll be early December. Enjoy!**

**Phoenix II**


	21. At School IX

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See Prologue**

**Summary: Graduation Day is here.**

**-.-**

_At School IX_

**-.-**

If Kyle wasn't one of the people who had planned this graduation ceremony, I would kiss the whole group. Most High School graduations are held in gymnasiums; cramped, hot gymnasiums, with no air circulation at all to remedy the situation. Kyle and the Graduation Committee moved it to our school's auditorium. The auditorium isn't the Kodak Theatre, but it's not tiny, either. More than enough to seat our graduating class, adorned in the traditional fag-tastic lime green gown and hat, and our families.

I am also thanking God for the fact that I am seated well away from Kyle. He's two rows in front of me, and on the complete opposite end of his row. All the same, though, he's still turning back and making googly eyes at me while the Principal makes his opening remarks. I can feel it, even though I'm staring forcefully at the balding ex-nerd, to try and discourage Kyle's undressing me with his eyes. Sicko's probably not wearing anything under that damn robe, either.

"…Now, I know the controversy our next speaker has sparked over the past few months, however…as a result of summary judgment on an anti-discrimination lawsuit filed in Federal court on his behalf, please welcome to the stage our next speaker, Senior Class President Kyle Broflovski." Kyle gets out of his seat and walks up to the podium, and he does at least appear to be wearing pants. Thankfully, the only person who claps for him is Butters, and after Craig punches him in the arm to stop him, you can hear crickets. The silence appears to make him nervous. I can see the uncertainty in his eyes as he looks out into the audience. Figures his mom would file a lawsuit just to give him something to fucking brag about.

"Thank you, Principal Sneed," he says, hesitation in his voice. "And thank you, my classmates, as well as Judge Marcia Kreiger of the U.S. District Court, for giving me the opportunity to speak to you today. The plan for today was to talk to you a little bit about the past, a little bit about the future, and how important friendship is. But, recently, I had a little revelation. I heard a little voice inside me telling me how hypocritical it would be of me to reminisce about the past and tell you all to cherish friendship when I'd done such a stellar job of destroying the friendship that was most important to me, and severing all ties to the past I had with that friend." As soon as he says that, I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I have a bad feeling about the rest of what is going to come out of his mouth, and judging by the reactions of Sneed and the Superintendent, this is not what Kyle was supposed to be saying.

"As most of you know, I was friends with Stan Marsh from preschool until halfway through our freshman year. He was my super best friend, and the fun times and adventures we had are more cherished memories to me than any of the six state title teams I was on as a member of this school's football and basketball teams, than any of the awards and trophies I received, even more than the night I lost my virginity. Sorry, Wendy." I look back a few rows, and boy is she red…though out of anger or embarrassment I'm not entirely sure.

"In the fall of our freshman year, though, I began to discover I had homosexual desires for Stan. In fear for our friendship, I kept these desires secret, realizing I had to take action to try and rid myself of them. It was then that I made one of the stupidest decisions of my life. Halfway through our freshman year, Stan's father lost his job, and he suddenly became poorer than the McCormicks. I felt at the time that my best chance at getting rid of my feelings was to get rid of the cause. In a moment of weakness, I decided that the best way to save my friendship with Stan was to end it. So I did. I sent him into exile, none the wiser that I wanted to push him up against his locker and ravish him.

"Three and a half years later, they haven't gone away. And because I was selfish, not only did I lose my friendship with him, I made him hate me. And because I made him hate me, I lost any chance of a relationship with him. This is my mea culpa, a heartfelt apology to all of you for lying to you for the last four years. I'm sorry for everything I've put you through, Stan, Wendy, Mom, Dad, and Ike. You didn't deserve any of it, and I hope that any underclassmen in the audience will learn something from my stupidity. Thank you." He steps away from the podium, walking back to his seat, and I'm pretty sure mine is the only dry eye in the place. Why does he have to be such a fucking good speaker? Now I've got two sobbing chicks on either side of me, I can hear Butters crying behind me, and I can see the tears trickling down the cheeks of Clyde and Cartman.

I'm not gonna say I feel awkward, because I don't. I make a habit of not feeling anything, which is why I'm not crying. I don't have any heartstrings to tug. But the situation is definitely awkward. How can it not be, when every single person around you is sobbing their eyes out? Even the school administrators up on stage have their faces in their handkerchiefs. Great. Now they're going to take five minutes and cry for the great speech delivered by the poor unfortunate Kyle, which is five minutes more I have to spend in this shithole. God damn him. All he ever has done lately is give me MORE reasons to hate him. He wants to know why I do? Look in the fucking mirror, faggot!

It takes forever for Sneed to overcome his emotional response to Kyle's "eloquent speech" and introduce the actual commencement speaker, some famous douchebag they hired to bore the pants off everybody. Thankfully, I manage to keep my pants on, mainly by closing my eyes and thinking of Boulder. Sweet, sweet Boulder, where I will be in just a couple of weeks, living and studying and being more than half a mile away from Kyle. I'll still be less than an hour's drive from him, but hopefully he'll be taking way too many classes to make the drive from Fort Collins to Boulder every weekend to try and woo me. And if he's not…well, it's a big campus, with plenty of places for me to hide. As for breaks…I just won't ever leave my room. If I'm careful, and I AM careful, he will never get ahold of me.

Thankfully, a smattering of applause breaks me out of my daydreams to tell me asshat is done. With asshat done, we move on to getting our diplomas and getting the fuck out of here. And running away from Kyle, assuming I can turn in this robe without being accosted. I take my place in the line of students forming to receive our diplomas, waiting my turn to cross the stage.

"…Stanley. R. Marsh," Sneed intones solemnly, and I go up the steps, across the stage, grab the diploma from the Superintendant with my left hand and shake his and Sneed's hands with my right, go down the steps on the other side, and back to my seat. And just like that, I am no longer a high-schooler. It's weird, in a way. I don't feel strange, like I probably should. I don't feel like I'm any different than I was before I went up onto the stage, the exception being I am now in possession of an embossed piece of parchment in a little leather folder. Now that I have it, though, I do believe I have solved the mystery of the shitty school lunch. There's no way they can afford decent food when they spend a hundred bucks on each of these things, and pay the speaker's fees, and buy that huge banner that hangs behind everyone on the stage welcoming them to the South Park High School Class of 2008 Graduation. I think that green cloth is actually silk.

"Class of 2008," Sneed says, returning to the mic. "To signify your graduation, please shift your tassels to the other side of your hat. Go forth and do us all proud. Mr. Wilson, strike up the band!" As he steps away, a few kids throw their hats in the air. I toss mine about a foot, so I can be sure to catch it. The small band assembled in the orchestra pit does as instructed, trumpets singing out the back end of Pomp and Circumstance while we march up the aisles, out of the auditorium while our parents stand up and cheer us on our way out.

In the hallway outside the auditorium, there are arrows directing us to where we're supposed to turn in our robes. Thankfully, they split us into two groups: A-L, and M-Z, which means Kyle and I will be turning our robes in separately. In an effort to get a head start on everything, I unzip mine and take it off immediately after exiting the auditorium, running down the hall (yes, running, there's nothing they can do to me anymore) with it slung over my arm to the turn-in point for M-Z. I'm at the front of the line, not in the least because of my mad sprinting skillz, and am on my way out the door to head back to the car when I'm grabbed by my shoulder and spun around.

"Kyle," I say in greeting, knowing it's him, and of course it is.

"Stan!" he says, pulling some little card out of his pocket. "Come to my grad party!"

"Excuse me?" I ask, grabbing the thing and looking it over. "You are cordially invited to Kyle's house for a celebration of his graduation, blah blah blah blah blah…how the hell do you expect to start this in ten minutes?"

"Oh, I set everything up before I came here, all the food was made last night and is in the fridge just waiting for me to get back and set it out. So…you gonna come?" Kyle says, like anybody would do exactly as he has and it's no big deal that he scheduled his party to start RIGHT AFTER the fucking ceremony.

"Why, so I can save you from spending three hours with your Jew relatives wearing an embarrassing party hat and talking about how cute your _tuchus_ is?" I ask, quite skeptical of Kyle's motivations.

"No…other people are going to be there," he says softly, shuffling his feet, entirely unconvinced of that statement.

"Who, Butters?" I ask. "In case you didn't notice, you just made pretty much everybody in town cry. As a matter of fact, I'm the only one who didn't cry."

"Of course you didn't," he mutters, scowling. "There's always one, and just my luck, it would be the person I was actually trying to affect."

"You were trying to affect me?" I ask, a touch of anger creeping into my voice. "Oh, I see. You were expecting that your nice little heartfelt speech would be enough to melt my frosty heart, make me stand up in the middle of our graduation ceremony, proclaim my undying love for you, run up onstage, drag you behind the curtains, and allow you to ravish me, weren't you?"

His silence and suddenly very red face says it all.

"Fuck you, Kyle. Fuck you all to Hell." I rip up the card and fling the pieces at him like confetti. My spirits are lifted only somewhat by the fact that more than a couple shreds of the paper land in his Jewfro. I spin on my heel and resume my walk towards the car, though it's decidedly more of a stalk this time due to my angry mood.

"Stan! Stan wait!" a very female voice calls out. I hear someone running after me, and a small hand on my shoulder to stop me once again. I turn around again to face Bebe, who is not dressed as fancily as one would expect. It's a pink tank top and grey short-shorts, and the heels she had on have been replaced by sneakers.

"I wanted to know if you think you could make it to my party later this afternoon," she says, handing me a pink card. It's very girly, and tells me that Bebe's party is at her house, in four hours.

"I dunno…" I say.

"I'll make it worth your while," she says, winking at me. "If you can come over closer to the end…it'll be better." Her finger tracing a path down my chest tells me everything I need to know about how much better, exactly, it would be for me to arrive closer to the end.

"I'll be there," I promise, smiling at her. "See you in about six hours."

"Bye Stan!" she says, waving at me. I wave back and grin as I finally manage to reach the car, letting Dad drive me and Mom home.

**-.-**

**Notes: There will be an additional bit of this on dA sometime later this weekend, assuming I can manage to write some heterosexual sex.**

**So. I managed to get this out in early December. Actually before Finals Week starts, which actually amazes me. Sadly enough, though, I could have probably written this a couple of weeks ago, if I wasn't a lazy jackass.**

**Anyway, reviews are appreciated greatly. Thanks, and assuming I don't update before then, Happy Holidays!**

**Phoenix II**


	22. At Home III

**Perchance to Dream**

**-.-**

**Disclaimer: See Prologue**

**Summary: Kyle is – on top of everything else he is – persistent.**

**-.-**

_At Home III_

**-.-**

It's now the last day of May. I'm packing up my newly-bought heavily-used car for the trip to Boulder and my new life as a College Student. Summer term starts in two days, and I figure I'll use the intervening days to get settled and oriented to the campus.

Of course, just as I wedge the box containing the pieces for a desk chair into my backseat, who should come running up to me but Kyle. He looks like he ran over here in a panic, and he obviously ran over here without regard to what he's wearing. Those shorts are WAY too short and WAY too yellow. He looks like he ran over here from the set of a Richard Simmons video, to be honest.

"What the fuck do you want now?" I ask, heading back into the house to get my clothes. Well, at least, the ones I plan on taking with me. Six days of tee shirts, six pairs of jeans, six pairs of shorts, and a set of dress clothes, along with socks, and underwear, and my shoes. That's enough clothes for a week, and I can wash on Sundays.

"You to tell me what the fuck you're doing, for starters," he says, following me inside and up the stairs to my room. Since he insists on being there, I toss him a couple duffle bags full of clothes.

"I'm leaving," I say non-chalantly, picking up the last two myself. "Thanks, by the way, this saves me a trip." I breeze past him, out the door, down the stairs, out the other door, and down the walk to my car. Kyle, predictably, follows, his face contorted in confusion. Sometimes I wonder how he got the good grades he did, as slow as he can be.

"You're leaving?" he repeats, in question form.

"Yes. I said that already. Gimme those," I say, beckoning him to toss me the duffels, which he does, and I place them alongside the other two in my trunk, slamming it shut.

"Where are you going? It's not even June, and all your family is here…"

"Oh, I figured I'd take a road trip to the East Coast, and Florida, and Texas, and California, and Mexico and Canada while I was at it," I say airily. "No, I'm going to college."

"…But it's not even June," Kyle repeats, as if I misplaced two and a half months of my calendar and seem to think it's nearly the end of August.

"I know," I reply. "I'm going early. Figure I'll take a few classes over the summer and get a jump start on getting my general education requirements out of the way so I can start taking classes I'll actually give a shit about sooner. Besides, it gets me away from you all the quicker."

"But…Colorado State's summer term doesn't start for another two weeks," Kyle points out. "Aren't you going there?"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence in my brains, asshole," I shoot back. "I'm not so dumb that C-State is my only option. Besides, they don't have the major I want anyway. I'm going to be a Buffalo," I say with pride.

"But…I'm going to Colorado State," Kyle points out. "Why wouldn't you go there?"

"Um," I begin, ticking points off on my hands as I go along. "You're going to be there, I don't want to be sexually harassed every chance you get, Bebe's going to Colorado, and it's easier to hook up with people when you're not 60 miles away, hmm…oh yeah, did I mention you'd be there?"

"Yes, I believe you did," Kyle shoots back. "I don't sexually harass you!"

"OK fine, drop the sexually bit, but you still harass me! Hell, you're harassing me now. I just wanna get the fuck outta this town, if you _DON'T_ mind…" I say, opening my door and sliding into the driver's seat. Kyle grabs the doorframe and prevents me from slamming it shut, though.

"I _do_ mind, though," he says. "You can't just run away from everything you don't like, you know. Besides, like you said, CSU is only 60 miles or so from Boulder, I can still be down there any weekend I want. Or I can have one of the fifty or sixty people I know who go there 'harass' you for me. And seriously, Bebe?"

"Well, a college campus is a big place. You can try to find me, but good luck. One of the first things I plan on doing is finding every conceivable hiding place. I can also kick one of the fifty or sixty people you know who go there in the nuts if they try. And seriously, Bebe. She got left hanging out to dry when the jocks reassigned Kenny to Wendy, so she offered, and I accepted the offer, to 'fill in,'" I say, sniggering at my own little pun.

"I'll find you," Kyle promises. "Just because you're an asshole and hate everybody doesn't mean I won't find a way in and make you see the light."

"If by light, you mean the glare of your pale Jewish underbelly when you take off your shirt, I'll pass on seeing it."

"I'm tan, thank you very much," he informs me. "If either of us is pale, it's you."

"Nothing a few afternoons in the sun can't fix," I shoot back. "And good fucking luck finding me. With my major, I'll get a job where I'll only be able to communicate with maybe five people _IF_ I choose. And I will be applying for internships every summer. You will never fucking see or hear from me again, and I will be a lot less likely to die of a stress-related heart attack before I turn 40."

"Just what the fuck do you plan on doing then?" Kyle asks. "Missionary work in Zimbabwe?"

"Nope, not even close. I'm going to be one of those Park Rangers in Yellowstone and those places who live up in those little cabins on those giant stilts, watching for forest fires for months at a time, virtually incommunicado. Environmental Studies. Ironic, huh? Cartman and that bunch spent the last three years calling me a hippie fag, and I'm going to prove them half right," I say, managing to slam the door shut finally, locking it and the other three to prevent Kyle from opening them. Putting the key in the ignition, I start the car, and just before putting it into gear, remember the one thing sitting in the passenger seat that made me glad to see Kyle.

I roll down my window and clutch it in my hand, ready to toss it out to him, and am instead assaulted.

"Don't you fucking dare," he says. "Don't you fucking dare run away in the middle of the night like this, leaving me in the lurch and wondering where the hell you went, and why the hell you have so much hate in you for me that you couldn't even tell me you were planning on leaving."

"Three things," I say. "It's like, 3:30 in the afternoon, you _know_ where I'm going, and I didn't tell you I was planning on leaving because I knew you'd pull something just like this; come over and beg me not to leave you behind. I've gotta give you credit, though, I expected you to be groveling by now."

"I'm not begging, either, asshole," he sneers, hanging on to my door for dear life. "I'm just trying to make your dumb ass see reason."

"Same difference," I reply with an indifferent wave of my hand. "How did you find out, anyway?"

"Clyde texted me about half an hour ago and said 'Your boyfriend's packing,'" Kyle says. I bristle.

"I'm not your goddamn boyfriend."

"But you should be!" Kyle says, incredibly predictably. "Goddamnit all to fucking Hell, you should be!"

Blinking dumbly on my part at Kyle's incredibly profane reply, I manage to reply with "Maybe I should be, but that'd be kinda awkward for you, wouldn't it? Dating a straight guy? Isn't that like, against your Homo Code of General Faggotry?"

"There's no such rule!" Kyle replies, defensively.

"OK fine, but you don't win the 25,000 dollars and the trip for two to New Zealand," I answer sardonically. Kyle stares at me, confused again. "I watched Boy Meets Boy during that little gay phase we had."

"So?" Kyle asks, not understanding at all what this has to do with the current situation.

"So, if the gay bachelor guy picked a straight guy in the end, the straight guy won the twenty-five grand and the gay guy got his ass shamed on basic cable," I reply. "It never pays for a gay to date a straight, idiot."

"Yeah, well you're the fucking gayest straight I've ever met," Kyle says, angrily.

"I'm not even one percent gay!" I shout back. "What the fuck makes you think that?"

"The plain and simple fact that you like it when I kiss you," Kyle replies. "Straights don't like being kissed by gays. You liked being kissed by me. Therefore, you are not straight."

"QE-fuckin-D, eh?" I ask. "I only liked it, if you will remember, because I had no fucking clue who was kissing me."

"You lie like a fly with a booger in its eye," Kyle sneers. "You liked it because you are, deep down, a rainbow child to the ninth degree."

"Except, your logic proving that statement is more flawed than the tectonic plates California sits on," I reply. "Leggo of my window, douchebag. I'm not going to change my mind about this, and you're going to have the next six months to find another hot boy to leech onto. Maybe that one'll actually be gay and be more than happy to let you into his pants." To emphasize my intentions, I put the car into gear and start to slowly pull away from the curb. Kyle lets go, and I manage to finally throw the object I've held in my hand for the past three minutes out the window, catching him flat in the chest. I speed up, pulling out into the main street as he sinks to his knees in the space vacated by my car. I adjust my rearview mirror to watch it as I slowly drive away. In his hand he holds what I threw, and with the other he pulls a chain off from around his neck.

He puts them together, and they form a heart with a jagged line down the middle. I found my half of the old BFF necklace in the bottom of my dresser, along with a pair of baseball cleats, a recorder, my Goth beanie, rabbit ears, and a Peruvian Flue Band CD. Now he has the whole damn thing, and I'll be damned if I don't see tears falling down his face.

Kyle is officially a lost cause. I think, honestly, that I'm getting out of South Park at just the right time. Now that he's not confined to school for eight hours a day, that would have been eight more hours he would have been free to sit outside my window and play annoyingly sappy love songs in hopes of literally wooing the pants off me, allowing him access to my ass, which he so clearly covets. Now he's crying in the street because I'm leaving, and I hope he uses the next two months to seriously re-think the way he's operating, because the way he's going is clearly not working for him.

He needs to take a cold shower, first of all. His hormones are out of control. He's worse than Kenny is during a week-long case of blue balls. Second, he needs to find someone who may actually give in to his charms. He does have them, they just don't work for shit on me. Maybe our decade of friendship did me SOME good in immunizing me from them, because I have not been influenced at all by the very things that made cheerleaders swoon and normal girls faint.

Either that, or – if he's _really_ serious about being with me – get a fucking sex-change. I'm never going to bend over for him, and if he wants me at all, he's going to have to bend over for me and have something that's not an asshole for me to stick it in. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is.

Goodbye, Kyle, and good fucking riddance.

**-.-**

**Notes: Don't worry, it's not over! In fact, this is just the beginning. I get the feeling I've said that before, but oh well.**

**I decided I'd put this out today as a Christmas present for all you readers of mine. I actually wrote this in a span of about an hour and a half, amazingly enough. I guess Baby Jesus just got my creative juices flowing on this one.**

**Reviews are appreciated. After all, you can't really get me anything ELSE for Christmas =P**

**See you again in 2009!**

**Phoenix II**


	23. At School X

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See prologue.**

**Summary: See how Stan's adapting to college life.**

**-.-**

_At School X_

**-.-**

I offer today further proof that God absolutely hates me. As an early admits, I got my choice of dorms. I chose Libby Hall, being just across the street from the Benson Earth Sciences Building where the Environmental Studies offices are, should I need to talk to my professors about anything. It's also right down the street from Folsom Field, should I get the urge to attend a game. I doubt it, but there's the option, at least. Anyway, with all that good, excellent convenience, why do I think God hates me? Two reasons, really: Bebe's located way over in Sewell Hall, and I think my roommate's in the running for gayest man on campus.

His name's Matt. Matt Williams. And he is epically, flaming gay. I swear on my Bible he's got not one, but three pairs of bondage pants in his closet. Plus fuzzy handcuffs, a vibrator, and a giant rainbow flag that he hung over his bed. He also has a bad habit of walking around the room with his shirt off, and takes far too long after coming back from showering to put on pants. He has Playgirl centerfolds hanging on his walls, a bottle of lube prominently displayed on his bedside table next to his skin lotion, and a large collection of gay bondage DVDs. I know for a fact he tried to seduce me when he first walked in the room. How, do you ask? Well, I answer, it's not too hard to discern intent when somebody rips off their pants and tries to pin you to your bed. He told me later he was just fucking around with me, but just to make sure he had his facts straight, I brought Bebe by for a quick fuck. Predictably, he didn't want to watch, but I did note that he didn't leave until I was naked, and that he "escaped" to the bathroom.

Why, after all the hell I went through with South Park's SuperFag Kyle, would I escape his clutches to Boulder and then get made to deal with the University of Colorado's Super-erFag? Well, I'll tell you it definitely wasn't by choice. Besides. Matt Williams is a fairly vanilla name, as far as names go. Doesn't really scream anything sinister at you, and it DEFINITELY doesn't scream "hyper-gay BDSM freak."

So, there you have it. God hates me. Maybe Environmental Studies wasn't such a good idea for a major. With my luck, I'm liable to get mauled by a bear while doing internships. Or even worse, run into a gay bear that hasn't been laid in two years and get raped by the bear, _then_ mauled because I wasn't into it enough.

Matt, when not getting fucked harder than the pizza delivery girl at a frat party, and walking around like he's trying out for Playgirl himself, has a couple of really weird habits. He seems really nervous or shy around me, aside from the first day's "get to know you." For instance, the three times he's brought guys around so far (for the record, how he found three separate gay guys willing to pound his ass through the mattress so fast is absolutely baffling to me), he's made me leave before he even undoes his belt. He leaves a pink Post-It note flag (the kind that come in that pen thing for marking books, typically) on the door until his bed only contains him, is pretty damn meticulous about organizing (you risk the wrath of Harvey Milk's ghost if you try to put a stray sock into the wrong one of his three clothes hampers), and after a stressful experience – be it class, day, phone call – he can massage all your troubles away. Yet another personal experience on this last one; my Introductory Econ professor is a real bastard. He has magic fingers, I swear.

He's an OK guy, excepting the love of rough gay sex, really. I could even get used to his systems. But there's still something about him that seems a little hinky. His telephone habits, specifically. Be it cell or the landline we're allowed in our dorm, as soon as I step into the room, he hangs up. It just seems really … odd. What's so bad about your roommate hearing you talk to your mother or a fuckbuddy or some old friend from high school that makes you abruptly end the conversation and hang up with a promise to call back?

Speaking of which…

"Hey, he's back. I've gotta go," Matt says as I re-enter the room after a less-than-enjoyable Freshman English class, moving to hang up before a final question is asked in his ear.

"Yeah, yeah I'll ask him, man." Another pause while the mystery person says something else. This person, whoever it is, doesn't wanna let Matt go, and it's really getting at him.

"I _know_, you've told me seventeen times already." Brief pause while he's rebuked. It was probably only sixteen, Matt, don't exaggerate.

"I will call you back as soon as I know, ok?" It's a briefer pause for the answer this time. Judging by the brevity, Matt gets a simple OK in reply.

"K, call you later. Bye." Finally, he's able to hang up, tossing the phone onto the bedside table. I eye him cautiously, before moving past his bed to toss my bag onto mine and sit down at my desk to check my e-mail and such. I'm halfway through a reply to Mom, asking me how my first week of the semester is going, when Matt taps me on the shoulder.

"Stan?" he asks, his voice shaky.

"Yeah Matt?"

"Um…I wanted to ask you something." He's very nervous about asking this, I see as he's shuffling his feet, while he looks down kinda at them. If I were gay, or a girl, I'd say that he looked really cute like that, in his skinny jeans and tight black screen-printed Aeropostale tee.

"Sure, as long as you're not asking me to go to another gay club to buy you drinks with my fake I.D.," I reply. It's the only mistake I've made so far, letting him know I've got a fake I.D. He's been after me every night to go clubbing with him, so he can use me to buy hot guys drinks. I've declined.

"It's not a club this time," he says. I roll my eyes and sigh, but he interrupts me. "No, Stan, please…it's like a lounge, or bar, I dunno. But it's not a club. No loud music, no bright multi-colored strobe lights, and not too many super-hotties. And I don't want you to go to buy me drinks, I promise!"

"OK, then, what is it?" I ask. "And does it have anything to do with why you're always hanging up whenever I come in the room?"

"Uhh…yeah, actually, it does," he says, taking a seat on my bed. "I've got a friend, goes to CSU, he's going to be down here for the game this weekend, and he's playing on Friday at the place. He wants to meet you."

"Oh," I say. "He's doesn't wanna … _meet_ me-meet me, does he?" I ask, cautiously, since Matt's kinda dancing around it.

"No, no nothing like that. Well, I mean, ordinarily, he'd be all over a delicious specimen of walking sex like you, but I mean, he knows about your girlfriend-thing, or whatever she is. He just wants to introduce himself and get to know you and stuff." I'm still wary, because I know what Matt's idea of getting to know someone is, and I doubt a friend of his would be much different.

"Pleeeeeeeeeeeeease, Stan?" Matt asks, turning on the puppy-dog eyes. This guy is _such_ a bottom. He does them really well, too, which is the scariest thing. He's probably gotten more than one guy naked and hard with that look.

I sigh. "Will it shut you up about the clubs? If I go to this thing with you?"

"Buy me a single beer, and I won't bother you about it for the rest of the semester. When we come back for the spring, I'll have my own from home," he says with a wink.

"OK, I'll buy you one beer. But you have to pay me back double. And, I get to say when we leave."

"Agreed," Matt says. "I love you, man, really. I gotta go call my friend. I'll see you later, OK?" Before I can reply, he springs off my bed, gives me a quick peck on the lips, and grabs his cell off his table before running out the door.

Needless to say, he leaves me in a fair amount of shock. And more than a liberal amount of disgust. It was probably a reflex thing for him, really, but that doesn't mean I'm not supposed to almost puke. While he's off excitedly calling whoever the fuck I'm gonna meet on Friday, I'm jumping out of my chair, grabbing my Listerine and making for the bathroom. Six minutes and twelve rounds later, I think I've gotten most of the gay off my lips and any that tried to escape into my mouth. I spit one last time and head back into the room. Matt's still not back, so I sit back down at my desk and finish off that e-mail to Mom.

I then sneak my way onto Matt's Facebook profile, trying to do a little investigating to try and figure out who I'll be meeting, and most importantly, listening to sing. It'll influence how much money I'll be bringing (i.e.: how much I need to be drunk). Anyway, first I filter out all his friends that aren't members of CSU's network. From there, I filter out all the CSU girls; because Matt said specifically the friend in question was a guy. From there, I eliminate any guy whose "interested in" line concludes with "females," since the guy would presumably think I'm a total hottie. I'm left with five. Going to each of their profiles, I eliminate two who don't have "guitar" and "singing" in their Interests fields.

So, I'm left with three possible choices. All Colorado State Students, all gay, all guitarists and singers. All three have RSVP'd to the game Saturday. Really, then, this was pointless, except maybe I'll know immediately who his friend is. At least I shouldn't have to bring too much money. None of them are ugly, and none of them have really atrocious choice in music either. The worst in there is the soundtrack of Cats, and even then, there are a couple good songs on there, I will admit. With the images of those three burned into my mind, I close out Facebook and turn on iTunes.

By this time, Matt has returned from his phone-calling extravaganza and is trying to get my attention again.

"What now?" I ask. I could have been a little more diplomatic and nice, but after what Matt just pulled, I really don't feel like it.

"I just wanted to apologize about earlier. I know, I know, you don't like guys, and I really shouldn't have done that. I just…kinda got caught up in my excitement. I hope you didn't take it too bad," he says, very sheepishly.

"The room's still intact, isn't it?" I ask, mock seriously. He grins.

"That it is, that it is. I still wanna make it up to you."

"You can give me a massage," I say. "I think that'll make up for it." I stand up and pull off my shirt, laying facedown on my bed. "Don't go exploring though."

"I won't," he says with a wink. "Shame, though, you're _really_ hot." Before I can snap out an equally clever retort, his hands are on my back and _ohmyfuckingGod_ he's so good. Gentle, sensuous, massaging circles hit all the right nerves, and I don't give a shit about my English instructor wanting me to read an entire novel over the weekend, or my Econ professor dressing me down for pointing out flaws in his examples, or Matt trying to infect me with the gay, because how can you have any negative feelings when something so good is happening to you?

He keeps it up for fifteen minutes before stopping, eliciting a groan from me.

"Why'd ya stop?" I murmur, eyes still closed.

"Because the way you were moaning, if I'd kept going, our neighbors would have thought I'd seduced you, and you would have came in your pants." I snap my eyes open and glare at him. "It's OK, I know I'm that good." Another sexy wink.

"You fucker," I mutter, sliding off the bed and glancing down at my crotch. He really _is_ that good.

"You want me to take care of that too?" Matt asks, leering at me. "They say my mouth is just as good as my hands."

"Get fucked, Matt, seriously. You're too damn horny today. Go find a butch twink or something when you go eat."

"Sure thing," Matt says. "You gonna go over to your girlfriend's while I'm getting fucked?"

"Yeah, sure. She's been wanting to introduce me to her roommate anyway."

"Hey, maybe you'll get a threesome out of it," Matt says with a shrug. "Don't tell me about it though, I don't like the bouncing boobs, ya know."

"I'll make you a deal. I don't tell you about the three-way I do or don't get, you don't tell me anything about how good the big cock you get up your ass tonight felt, deal?"

"Deal," Matt says, sitting down at his own desk and consulting his cellphone for a possible hookup. I just scoff and return to my iTunes, counting down the hours to solving at least one of Matt's mysteries.

**-.-**

**Notes: I honestly have no idea how I managed to get this chapter to be as long as it is. Honestly, by the time I got halfway through most of what I had planned for this chapter, I was at less than a thousand words. For the next chapter, it'll either be a really, really, almost obscenely long chapter, or two chapters, one not so long, and one really, really long one. Either way, Stan and Matt will be going to the bar place next chapter, and you should be seeing that sometime between St. Patty's Day and Easter.**

'**Til then,**

**Phoenix II**


	24. Elsewhere IV

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See prologue**

**Summary: Stan finds out what Matt's been up to on the phone.**

**-.-**

_Elsewhere IV_

**-.-**

_7:24_

I've been staring at my alarm clock for the last half hour. Matt wanted to be gone by seven. That's when he said the thing wherever the hell it is starts. And yet, I'm waiting on him. He's probably got somebody's dick in his mouth, though, and he can't really keep track of time when he's in the middle of sex. I've called him a couple times, no answer, of course. I've been dressed since 6:45. I figured since it's a bar, I could go casual, but since it's a gay bar, I should probably do a bit better than Goodwill jeans and a knockoff Rolling Stones tee shirt. So I decided to go with Wal-Mart jeans and a Buffs tee shirt I got at Orientation. Hopefully, I won't be hit on, but maybe I can talk Matt into pretending to be my boyfriend. Doubtful, since he'll probably be casing the place for a lay. Thankfully, I've got a photo of Bebe in my wallet. I'll use it if I have to.

_7:46_

Key in the lock. It's gotta be him. The door swings open and admits Matt, who is looking rather satisfied.

"I'm not even going to ask," I say, rolling my eyes.

"The desk receptionist who was on duty when we went to dinner," Matt answers anyway. "Don't worry, I only blew him…this time." I sigh, exasperated.

"Warming up?" I ask, somewhat sarcastically.

"Oh Stanny, you should know by now I'm _always_ ready to go…I don't need to warm up," Matt replies, waving at me dismissively. "Now…what to wear? I can't wear this, it's got a stain," he says, turning his attention to his closet and stripping out of his Abercrombie shirt. I sigh and turn on my TV, choosing to watch MTV instead of Matt standing around half-naked mulling over his outfit.

_8:12_

Is he ever going to just _pick a Goddamn outfit_!? I swear to God, he's gone through five different clothing arrangements.

"I thought you wanted to be there an hour ago?" I ask, looking at him quite exasperated. "Is it that important whether or not you wear a polo with your emo jeans? It's a bar, for Christ's sake!"

"It's a _gay bar_, Stanley! My people understand and care about looks! Besides, he'll be there for at least another hour. He knows how I am, and understands the concept of _patience_." I raise an eyebrow.

"Matt, you look fine. Honestly, it doesn't really matter what you wear, plenty of guys aren't going to be looking at anything but your ass."

"I think you're learning, Stan," Matt says with a grin. "OK, fine, let's go. I'll give you directions to the place."

"We're taking my car?" I ask, uncertain. "Dude, you know my car is a piece of crap. Let's take yours. I'll just catch a cab or something."

Matt shrugs. "OK. If you wanna ride in the purple Toyota pimpmobile…"

"Don't worry, I'll slouch so I can't be seen."

"That's my blustery homophobic roommate," Matt says, patting me on the back. "C'mon."

_8:24_

The place has a fairly generic name. Pretty gay generic name, but "Hardwood Pub" is a lot better than "Sparkling Rainbow Bar," at least to me. I almost wish I had a mask, or fake glasses or something just in case I know somebody in here besides Matt.

"Beer first, then I'll introduce you, OK?" Matt says, pocketing his keys, which stick out like a bulge in his tight jeans.

"Fine. I think I'm going to need more than a little liquid courage to get through tonight," I mutter. "Lead on, Liberace." Matt glares, but opens the door anyway and leads me to the bar. At least the place is well lit, so I'll know if somebody gropes me.

"Any particular brand you want?" I ask. "Or should I just ask for what's on tap?"

"Sam Adams," Matt says. "It's always a good decision."

"We need to get you to try different beer," I reply with a grimace. "OK, wait here, I'll be right back." Matt grabs a seat at a small table while I head to the bar.

"21?" the shirtless (of course) bartender asks. I pull out my ID saying yes indeed I am and hand it over.

"OK," he replies, glancing at it and handing it back. "What do you and your boyfriend want?" I wince inside hearing him call Matt my boyfriend, but decide to roll with it.

"Sam Adams for him, and I'll have a shot of whiskey, a scotch on the rocks, and a Coors," I say. The more liquor for me tonight, the better.

"Coming right up." He sets a tray on the counter, uncaps a Sam Adams, pours a shot glass of whiskey, a glass of scotch over ice, and uncaps a bottle of Coors.

"Thirty bucks." I scowl and toss over two twenties, and he hands me a ten back from the register. I do the whiskey shot even before taking the tray to Matt.

"Feel the burn?" he asks as I hand him his beer.

"You owe me seven bucks." The burn from the whiskey feels good. So does the burn from the scotch. So does the warmth in my stomach the alcohol makes. So good, in fact, I actually manage to chug the beer.

"Let's get this over with," I mutter, my eyes roving around the place. "A couple of these guys are ogling me, and I don't like it. That bartender thinks you're my boyfriend."

Matt finds this funny, giggling while he sips his beer.

"It's not funny, jackass," I grouse. "Hurry up."

"Fine, fine," Matt says, and tosses back the rest of his beer expertly. He gets up, and I follow, as he leads me towards a dark room.

"The musical acts are back here," he says, pushing open the door. I hear an acoustic guitar just then, which either means this room is soundproofed, or that he's just starting a new song. The room is dark, but there's a spotlight on the performer onstage. I look up there, expecting to see a younger guy, blond or brown hair playing some Elton John or Billy Joel or some gay shit like that.

Instead, my blood begins to boil and I clench a fist as I see Kyle goddamn motherfucking Brofagski standing up there strumming a guitar the same color as his hair like it's nobody's business. Then he starts singing, and he stares right at me, I swear. He looks straight at the door, and straight at me. I'm going to kill Matt. Those two cocksuckers plotted this. It all makes sense now, at least. He hung up immediately because he figured I'd be able to identify Kyle's voice. I don't even wanna know how he got the number to the dorm, or how he was able to talk Matt into tricking me into going here, all I wanna know is who I'm going to get to give me an alibi for tonight, because somebody's going to die for this.

_I'm not a perfect person_, Kyle begins, and I die a little inside, because first of I _know_ he's singing to me, and secondly because it's fucking _HOOBASTANK_, of all bands.

_There's many things I wish I didn't do_

_But I continue learning_

_I never meant to do those things to you_

_And so, I have to say before I go_

_That I just want you to know_

_I've found a reason for me_

_To change who I used to be_

_A reason to start over new_

_And the reason is you_

At least he can sing. I mean, it's still kinda hard on the ears, but Kyle at least knows how to carry a tune. He looks like a douchebag with his eyes closed, like the fucking guitar is sucking his cock, but he's still looking in my general direction.

I look over to Matt. "I want to leave now."

"Wait til the end," he says, his eyes on some tall dark and handsome thing in the corner. I scowl and return my attention to Kyle, who's starting the second verse.

_I'm sorry that I hurt you_

_It's something I must live with everyday_

_And all the pain I put you through_

_I wish that I could take it all away_

_And be the one who catches all your tears_

_That's why I need you to hear_

_I've found a reason for me_

_To change who I used to be_

_A reason to start over new_

_And the reason is you_

_And the reason is you_

_And the reason is you_

_And the reason is you_

God, this is so gay. I'm trying to be calm here, but I can't help thinking somebody is going to rape me. Probably Kyle, since he's looking at me with a pathetic pleading impression. I think he wants me to think that he's not a douchebag anymore, that he's sorry for everything he's put me through, and wants me to forgive him so we can live a life of him putting it in me 'til we both die of syphilis or AIDS or some other terrible disease.

_I'm not a perfect person_

_I never meant to do those things to you_

_And so I have to say before I go_

_That I just want you to know_

_I've found a reason for me_

_To change who I used to be_

_A reason to start over new_

_And the reason is you_

_I've found a reason to show_

_A side of me you didn't know_

_A reason for all that I do_

_And the reason is you_

The crowd predictably applauds and whistles and other forms of congratulatory fellatio (figurative, not literal, fellatio, thank God). Kyle bows and looks at me. I scowl and stalk forward, grabbing the guitar out of his hands and staring him down. The chords come from memory, as I was practicing this song close to the end of High School just in case he bothered me at the shop again.

_Here we are, dear old friend, you and I drunk again._

_Laughs have been had and tears have been shed; maybe the whiskey's gone to my head:_

_But if I were gay, I would give you my heart;_

_and if I were gay you'd be my work of art;_

_and if I were gay, we would swim in romance, but I'm not gay _

_so get your hand out of my pants._

_It's not that I don't care – I do – I just don't see myself in you._

_Another time, another scene, I'd be right behind you -if you know what I mean._

'_Cause if I were gay, I would give you my soul;_

_and if I were gay, I would give you my whole…being._

_and if I were gay, we would tear down the walls_

_but I'm not gay, so wont you stop cupping my…hand._

Finished, I throw the guitar back at Kyle and stalk off. Nobody impedes my progress on the way out, not even Matt. I'm halfway across the parking lot before somebody grabs me. I'm spun around and find myself face to face with that red-headed devil himself.

"Hi," he says, quite simply and quite stupidly.

"Hi, assface," I reply.

"We need to talk," he says.

"We can talk right here," I reply. Of course, Kyle's not really one for airing his grievances in parking lots, or any public place. Not to mention, the place is probably monitored by security cameras, so he can't really do anything to "convince" me to see his point of view/come over to the fabulous side. Unless, of course, he wouldn't mind being open to battery charges, or coercion, or rape…

"In private," he clarifies. "I'm not talking to you here, there's a camera right on that light pole."

"Where's private, jackass? I'm not riding to Fort Collins to talk to you."

"You don't have to. I have a hotel room just across the street."

"Days Inn?" I ask, looking skeptically across the road. "Fucking cheapskate."

"Funny," Kyle sneers. "Just c'mon."

"What about Matt?"

"I saw him dragging that black guy he was ogling towards the bathroom. I think he'll probably be … _occupied_ for the rest of the evening." Goddamnit. He would do that, and give me no way back to campus. Of course, he's probably taking the guy to our room anyway, so I don't want to be there, but still…he's left me here with _KYLE_.

"Fine," I mutter. "But no funny business. Just talking."

Kyle says nothing, just heads off towards the road. Of course, being nine p.m. on a Friday night, it's a little busy, so we have to wait ten minutes before we have a chance to cross. I follow him silently across the street, across the hotel's parking lot, through the hotel lobby, into the elevator, and down the hall to his room.

Once he shuts the door and throws the deadbolt, I speak up.

"What the fuck do you want to talk about?" I ask.

"The same thing I've been trying to talk with you about since February," he says. "You and me."

"There is no me and you," I growl. "Just like I've fucking told you every time you've brought this up, you dropped me like a hot potato with cancer three years ago. You can't just walk in and say 'Oops my bad,' and expect me to just fall into your goddamn arms like the last three years never happened."

"You can't be fucking serious," he says. "There's no way there's not one part of you, no matter how small, that regrets the fact that we were apart for all those years. Now, I'll admit, I did a very stupid, very selfish thing by forcing you away, but I was fifteen, just discovered I was gay, and I was scared as hell! Sure, I should have been honest with you and maybe this wouldn't have happened, but fifteen-year-old me didn't want to risk being rejected at all. Turns out all I did was prolong it four years, and I've been kicking myself when everybody else hasn't for losing that time with you for nothing."

"Why the fuck do you think I wouldn't have kicked you out of the group myself for being gay for me?" I ask. "I wasn't any more open to gay advances then than I am now."

"Stanley," Kyle says, putting on his serious face, "if you weren't open to gay advances at all, there's no way I would have been able to kiss you once, much less the two times I've managed it, and neither time have you objected until after five seconds."

"You fucking ambushed me both times!" I object.

"If you weren't looking to be gay-kissed on any level, you wouldn't have left yourself open for ambushing!" Kyle retorts.

"The whole definition of ambush is an unexpected, unanticipated, out-of-the-blue attack!" I reply. "There's no way to not leave yourself open for an ambush, except for turning into Tweek, and my life sucked enough with out that, thank you very much!"

Kyle flops onto the bed and buries his head in a pillow to scream in frustration.

"I'll make you a bet," he says, rolling over. "You give me one roll in the hay, and I'll prove that you're gay for me back."

I quirk an eyebrow. It sounds like an utterly ridiculous bet, because it would involve actually submitting to Kyle and letting him fuck me. The rational part of my brain says to tell Kyle "Hell no!" and leave.

Instead, I set a condition of my own: "And if you don't prove it, you'll drop this and leave me the fuck alone?"

"If you truly, truly hate it, I will drop it and leave you the fuck alone," Kyle promises. Before I can stop myself, I'm kicking off my shoes and reaching for my belt.

**-.-**

**Notes: Aren't I a bastard? Well, before y'all try to hunt me down for making you wait two months and then teasing you like this, let me explain that I'm going to finish this during finals week, which is roughly three weeks from now. The next chapter will start with the aftermath of this scene, and I will put the scene itself up on dA between now and then.**

**The reason you've been waiting this long is because I'm a lazy bastard and I'm sorry for that. I planned on writing this during my Spring Break, which was the week of St. Patrick's Day (about a month ago). Unfortunately, the way Break shook out, I did not have the chance to do so. Blame the NCAA basketball tournament, a crap-tastic home computer, and an uncooperative car.**

**See you again in a few weeks,**

**Phoenix II**


	25. Elsewhere V

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See prologue**

**Summary: The aftermath. Will Stan concede the issue?**

**-.-**

_Elsewhere V_

**-.-**

It's been an hour since Kyle pulled out of me. My ass hurts, and I still need a shower. But instead of letting me clean myself up, Kyle is snuggling with me – asleep for the last half-hour, mind you – and spooning me. I'm disgusted with myself. I need to get out of this bed, have a very long, very hot shower, get out of this room, get out of this hotel, and proceed to a straight bar where I need to drink until I don't know my own name anymore. And until the pain stops. Or whichever comes first.

But before I can do any of that, I need to make my escape from Kyle's grasp. Grabbing my two pillows, I slide one in between my ass and Kyle's crotch, and the other into his hands before wriggling away, leaving him spooning one pillow and holding the other like a stuffed bear.

Step one: accomplished.

Getting the shower isn't difficult, though I am of course annoyed at the bar soap that you have to unwrap and get wet before you can do anything with it. It's slippery as fuck too, which is another downside. Who the fuck uses bar soap anymore anyway?

I stay in the shower until the water starts to get cold, hoping the steam and heat can make me clean. I step out and towel off, walking back into the bedroom and re-dressing. Before I make my way out of the room, I pay a visit to Kyle's discarded pants and lift 40 bucks from his wallet. That should cover cab fare to downtown and the first few shots.

To leave the room, I quietly open the door and close it as quiet as I can behind me, then all but run down the hall and down the stairs to the front desk. The manager looks at me funny, and I give him an apologetic look.

"Could you call me a cab?" I ask. "My friend's asleep and I'd rather not wake him up so he can take me downtown."

"Sure thing," the man says, accepting my explanation without any questioning. Ten minutes later, I'm headed to downtown Boulder. Of course, taxis here aren't the yellow cars most people from larger cities associate with the term taxi, usually they're the cab company's owner's personal car with his company logo stuck on the rear window and a CB radio installed so his wife/dispatcher can route him to fares. Such is the case here; the cab I'm riding in is a purple 2004 Dodge Intrepid driven by a guy in his late 40s.

"So, you wanna be dropped anywhere in particular downtown?" he asks.

"Not really," I reply. "First bar you see, I guess. I just need to tie one on, I'm not that particular as to where I do it."

"Sure thing," the guy says, pulling to the curb a few minutes later next to a very neon storefront. I unbuckle my seatbelt and pull out my wallet.

"Fifteen bucks," he tells me, and I hand over the cash. "Have a good night."

"You too," I say, exiting the car and heading into the bar. At least it's not karaoke night, though the country music isn't much better than drunken amateurs belting out "Never Gonna Give You Up." I take a seat at the bar and flag down the bartender.

"What d'you want, son?" the guy (who's probably around 50, with a very Texan mustache) tending bar asks.

"Straight-up whiskey," I reply. "Shots. Just keep it coming, alright?"

"Sure thing," he replies, not even asking for ID, just setting a shot glass up on the bar in front of me and filling it with Jack. I grab it and knock it back, setting it back down to be refilled. I do this at least five times before I start to feel a little unsteady. Nevertheless, I set it back up to be refilled.

"Last one for a while, son," the bartender says. "You need a sandwich or something to soak up that alcohol." I knock it back.

"Fine. Gimme a ham sandwich, and some peanuts, and … that kinda stuff," I say. "Just make it quick, I'm not in a mood to quit drinking yet." He gives me a concerned look, but puts a dish of peanuts up onto the bar and heads off towards the kitchen. I grab a handful and stuff them into my mouth.

I eat the ham sandwich. I polish off the peanuts. I even drink two cups of coffee before Yosemite Sam will give me more liquor. I quickly knock back five more shots, consuming enough liquor to kill an emo kid. I will admit to being quite dizzy at this point.

"OK son, that's enough," the bartender says, snatching the shot glass out of my hand. "You owe 50 bucks for the night."

I grunt understanding, pulling out my wallet and tossing money onto the bar. I'm not entirely certain of my ability to form coherent sentences at this point, so it's best to just not talk at all. Old guy takes it and gives me a few back; I don't pay any particular attention to the denominations, I just shove 'em back in my pocket.

As I spin myself around to leave the bar, I come face-to-face with a not-quite-as-drunk-as-I-am Bebe and her roommate…Kelly, I think her name is. They're dressed like Daisy Duke, right down to the short-shorts and cowboy hats.

"Heeeeeeey Stan," Bebe drawls. "I thought that was you. You wanna…come back with us?"

Her proposition doesn't seem like that bad of an idea, especially considering I need a place to sleep tonight with Matt having his ass pounded by a big black dick. Unfortunately, I don't think I'm capable of fully enjoying the night.

"Suuuuuure," I reply, trying to imitate her drawl but instead slurring it. I imagine I look like an idiot. I sure feel like one.

"Great! C'mon, we need to sneak you in the window…and then the night can get started! Oh yeaaaaah!" Kelly says, grabbing my arm with one hand while high-fiving Bebe with the other. Bebe grabs my other arm, and they lead me out of the bar. Once outside, two scantily clad, rather hot girls have no trouble flagging down a cab to take us back to campus.

The rest of the night is pretty much a blur. I wake up the next morning with vague memories of cards, discarded clothing, and bad music. If the fact that I wake up naked, with Kelly laying naked on my chest, and Bebe laying naked between my legs with her head rested on Kelly's ass speaks volumes as to what exactly the three of us got up to in our drunken states. I make a note to myself to do it again whilst sober.

While I wait for those two to wake up, I spend some time waiting for my hangover headache to subside pondering how nice Kelly's rack is (it's very nice, I conclude, and I hope Bebe is into open relationships, because I would _not_ mind doing her again), and then find the remote for their TV and tune it to the game. The loud screams of tens of thousands of impassioned football fans apparently does wonders for waking up girls. Especially for waking up hungover girls.

"Damnit Stan, turn that shit down!" Bebe yells, smacking my thigh. Kelly moans at the sound of the smack, her eyes fluttering open while I thumb the volume down.

"Fuck, my head hurts…" she mutters. "Bebe, where d'you keep the aspirin?"

"It's up by Stan's head. Pass it down here when the two of you are done with it." I reach up and find the appropriate bottle, popping it open and dropping out two tablets for myself, and two more onto Kelly's outstretched and waiting tongue before replacing the cap and tossing the bottle back to Bebe while watching Kelly sexily swallow the aspirin.

"What time is it?" I ask the girls, presuming they can see the clock on the table.

"Um…12:12," Kelly replies, looking up. "Why?"

"Nothing, just wondering if I should head back to my room yet, as comfortable and sexy as this arrangement is," I say. "I doubt it. Matt has a bad habit of keeping guys over for 16 hours or more…"

"Well then, who's up for another game of poker?" Bebe asks, sitting up.

"Um…we don't have anything to bet with," Kelly points out. "We're already naked."

"Oh, sweet naïve Kelly…" Bebe replies with a grin. "You two go shower…I'll set up." We exchange a glance as she climbs off the bed over to the small table we were using to play poker last night. Shrugging my shoulders, I gesture towards the bathroom.

"After you." She giggles and blows me a kiss as she disappears into the shower. When she comes out dripping wet, I have to run past to conceal the direction of my blood flow, though I don't jack off in the shower because I know how Bebe operates. I step back into the main room still naked, but game for whatever Bebe planning.

"We're gonna play truth or dare poker!" Bebe announces. "It's like strip poker, but since we're already naked, whoever loses the hand has to do a dare. And every dare will, of course, involve sex," she says with a grin.

Man I love college…

Six hands of poker later, not only do I know that neither girl has any inhibitions to speak of, but I also learned that truth-or-dare poker is an effective interrogation technique. No way else would I have learned that Kelly's first sexual experience was in the backset of a '73 Camaro with a 20 year old punk rocker who thought all girls swallowed.

"OK, I've got to go now," I say, grabbing the clothes I was wearing last night and pulling them on. "I'll call you guys later, 'kay?"

"We'll be waiting," Kelly says, licking her lips while Bebe waggles her eyebrows. I grin and slip out their window before making the short walk back to my room. Barely five seconds after I have put key to lock and admitted myself back in, I'm almost assaulted by a very angry Matt.

"Where the _FUCK_ have you been!?" he demands, getting up in my personal space. I shoot him a glare before proceeding to my bed.

"Kyle has been calling me every half hour since he woke up to find you gone at six A.M. That was _nine hours ago_ Stanley! Where the fuck have you been?"

"Passed out drunk until noon, and for the last three hours, playing truth-or-dare poker with Bebe and her roommate," I inform him.

"Still clinging to the illusion that you're heterosexual, I see," Matt sneers at me.

"If I was gay for Kyle, you think I would have run like the room was on fire?" I ask, grabbing a pair of noise-cancelling headphones and my mp3 player.

"To hear him tell it, you sounded far gayer for him than I am for any of the guys who've pounded my ass in the last two years, and that's a LOT of guys I've been gay for," Matt reminds me.

"Well, as usual, Kyle's lying through his bleached teeth," I reply, flopping down onto my bed, jacking the headphones into the mp3 player and putting them on my head, silencing Matt and ushering the sweet angry guitar melodies of Metallica into my ears. I stare at my roommate as he continues to flap his gums for five more minutes before giving up and walking out into the hallway with his cell phone attached to his ear. It doesn't take a genius to figure out he's calling Kyle.

A few minutes into "Nothing Else Matters," he re-enters the room and stalks over to my bed. Before I can even ask him what the fuck he wants, he shoves my pants down and pins me to my bed before engulfing my by-now overused dick with his mouth. In less time than it would take Bebe to begin drooling at the sight, I'm getting hard and moaning. Matt grins and continues to blow me, until I succumb to his mouth's ministrations and shoot what has to be my fifth load of the day. In an act that has to be hard for a guy like him to do, but one that's filled with contempt, he spits it out on my leg.

"You fucking closet case," he mutters before stalking out of the room, forcing me to take my third shower of the day.

Goddamn Matt.

**-.-**

**Notes: A little quicker update this time. We're close to hitting the homestretch now. This plan may not have worked out the way Kyle wanted, but all that means is that he has to think bigger, as you'll see in the next few chapters.**

**Next update should happen (hopefully) sometime before Father's Day next month, depending on how my work schedule shakes out.**

'**Til then,**

**Phoenix II**


	26. At Home IV

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See prologue **

**Summary: It's been quiet. Too quiet…**

**-.-**

_At Home IV_

**-.-**

For the entirety of the rest of the fall semester, there was no sign of Kyle. He didn't make good on a single one of his threats to either come down himself or have "minions" of his harass me. Then again, he may have, but I was too busy being places-other-than-my-room to care. I spent most of my time hanging around Bebe and Kelly, for the most part either eating with them or fucking with them (or just watching them fuck). When I could be bothered to return to my room (usually just to grab a different textbook and occasionally to sleep), I did have the minor annoyance for most of the semester of Matt and his far too persistent quest to prove I'm not straight.

It took him until late October to fully abandon the theory that I was gayer than him he'd been fed by Kyle. Apparently, there's only so many times a "gay" guy can have wild sex parties with not one but TWO girls before he ceases to be gay. About that time, he started spouting some bullshit about the company I keep showing what I really am: a hypocritical self-denying bisexual. His reasoning? I secretly like it up the ass and I hang out with hot lesbians while bashing gay people.

Of course, this is easily refutable by the fact that _everybody_ would hang out with hot lesbians if they could, and Matt's probably just jealous as hell that I am and he's not. Also, they're lesbians, not gay people.

Anyway, Matt aside, my first semester was oddly pleasant. I did well in my classes (As and Bs), the football team actually got it together and played in the Holiday Bowl (though they did get spanked by Nebraska again, but that's the Big 12 for you), and I met a whole bunch of awesome people through my relationships with Bebe and Kelly and my friendship with about half the guys from SPHS. They were, for the most part, my ticket into the frat parties on campus. Yay underage drinking and wild drunken hook-ups!

Now that it's over, though, I have to return to South Park for a month. Undoubtedly I'll skedaddle back to Boulder as soon as I can, thanking God for starting spring classes the week of January 11 and limiting the time I have to spend anywhere near Kyle. The drive back is pleasant enough, though blindingly white in places from the foot or so of snow that's already on the ground.

Of course, that pleasant feeling dissipates faster than a flash rave once I turn onto my street. Because there is a car parked in front of my house that does not belong there. And leaning against that car like he's still King of the Goddamned universe is Kyle. And as I drive closer, I believe I can discern the fact that he's smirking at me. This does not bode well. As I pull into the driveway, Mom and Dad both come out of the house to greet me, and Kyle makes his way up the drive. I get out of the car with a neutral expression on my face, my eyes blazing with a hidden fury.

"Welcome home, Stanley!" Mom shouts, waving at me as she runs to embrace me. I can't say I blame her, I haven't been home in six months. I hug her back, and get a pat on the back from Dad.

"We'll take your stuff inside, son," Dad says. "See you later tonight! Your Mom's making casserole!"

I look at them, confused for a moment until Kyle comes up and puts his arm around my shoulders. Obviously he got it into their heads that we've got plans for tonight. We don't…or rather, didn't, since we quite obviously do now.

"OK Dad," I reply, trying hard not to flinch at Kyle's touch and not entirely succeeding.

"Enjoy the party, Stanley!" Mom says, my laundry bag already in her hands. Party? Oh, brilliant.

"I will!" Unless the party is in Kyle's pants. Judging from my recent experiences with Kyle, it probably is. I may enjoy ruining the party, in that case. Kyle steers me towards his car and all but buckles me in.

"Welcome back!" he says cheerfully as he starts it up.

Less cheerfully, I reply. "Just what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Welcoming you home from college?" he tries.

"No," I reply. "Dragging me away from home by feeding some cock-and-bull story to my parents about some sort of party."

"Oh but we are going to a party," Kyle said.

"Oh really?" I ask, somewhat snidely. "You mean you're not going to drag me to the Super 8 and tie me to the bed and have your way with me again?"

Kyle glared. "First, you accepted the bet. Second, yes, a party. Some of the guys are having a get together at Shakey's now that all the exams are done."

"And how exactly did you wrangle an invite to it?" I ask. Kyle chuckles. Oh, this won't be good.

"Money and girls, Stan. It's not like any of them are shining beacons of moral fortitude. Give people what they want, you'll find people are most willing to forgive past transgressions." I stare open-mouthed at him for several silent moments.

"I can't believe you," I say finally. "You _bribed _them just so you could use them as cover to get closer to me without any reprisal beatings from our old friends."

"They don't care about my _motives_, Stan!" Kyle exclaims with a fairly malevolent chuckle. "They care about what I can do for _them_. Just like during high school. For Token, it was a bid to the most prestigious fraternities on campus. For Craig and Clyde, bids to any fraternity. For Tweek, effective control of a small coffee distribution company. For Kenny, subsidies to help fund his courtship of one Miss Testaburger. And for Cartman…" at this point, Kyle makes a face. "Well, you'd probably rather not know what it took to get Cartman to forgive me."

"Was it degrading, sadistic, and utterly humiliating to you?" I ask.

"Duh, it's Cartman."

"Then yes, I want to know every last detail," I say with a glare. Kyle glares back.

"Control of a chain of Kosher beef slaughterhouses that he turned into pork slaughterhouses. And ten grand on top of that. And four blonde girls on top of that. And he made me watch him do all four of them on his bed covered in the ten grand."

I grin. "Have I mentioned lately how much I like Cartman?"

"You're a dick, Stan," Kyle replies. "You know that?"

"I do," I reply. "I also know that you like dicks. Maybe _that's_ why you can't seem to get enough of me, even though you can't stand me."

"It's not that I can't stand you," Kyle shoots back, "it's that you're apparently incapable of being a mature guy and insist on making juvenile gay jokes any time I try to be serious with you."

"I haven't been scolded since I was eight," I inform him. "And I'm not about to start again, especially not by you."

"Well then stop being a total asshole for a few minutes and maybe I'll stop."

"Stop trying to buy your way into my pants and maybe I'll stop," I shoot back.

"I'm _not_ trying to buy my way into your pants," Kyle replies, pulling into the parking lot. "Besides, I already know how to get in your pants. I just have to make a ridiculous bet with you."

"That only worked once and it shouldn't have worked then," I reply. "I just wanted to be rid of you."

"Well, that didn't work, did it?" Kyle asked snidely. "Now come on, let's go eat."

"Fine. But you act like we're all butt-buddies in there, I will drown you in the ball pit, I swear to God."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Stanley," Kyle warns me, getting out of the car. Reluctantly, I follow.

When we walk in, it's easy to see where the rest of the guys are assembled, since there's a fairly conspicuous lack of tables near the entrance, because they've been pushed together close to the buffet. No doubt that was Cartman's doing, even though he's already got two XL pizzas in front of him that he's not sharing with anyone.

"Hey guys!" I say, breaking away from Cartman and hurrying to the table, claiming a seat next to Kenny, leaving Kyle to sit across from me. If he tries playing footsie with me, I'm going to break his legs.

Forty-five minutes is wasted updating me on things I missed out on while I was taking my summer classes. Apparently Token and Clyde managed to get a couple of sophomores arrested for breaking into the old train station on a dare, and Tweek and Craig orchestrated the massive Fourth of July fireworks display that this year culminated in a series of smiley-face fireworks framing a big middle-finger display, and Cartman foiled a Mexican plot to tunnel through America and destroy Canada – by falling into the tunnel since he's so damn fat.

Thirty minutes later, Cartman smacks the ass of a waitress and we all get thrown out. Kyle drives me home, and then insists on following me in. I try to slam the door in his face, but he's quicker than I would think from him and he catches it with his foot and his hand, forcing it back open and himself inside.

"Stanley, is that you honey?" Mom asks, coming in from the kitchen. "Oh, and Kyle too! Home early?"

"Yeah, Fatass got us thrown out of Shakey's," I mutter. "Is supper ready? I only got through with one piece before then."

"I just took it out of the oven, actually," Mom says. "Is Kyle staying for dinner too? It's just so good to see you two boys hanging out together again." Damnit. Kyle's co-opted my parents too. I can't just get rid of him, or else she'll accuse me of being rude and anti-social. But if he stays for dinner, he's going to get the impression that I'm OK with him being around me for long periods of time, which I'm not. Especially since Mom will inevitably sit him next to me.

"Uhh…" I stammer, like a total idiot. "I suppose, unless he's _got_ to get _home_," I say, stressing the words that I would rather hear from Kyle's mouth and wishing I had eyes in the back of my head so I could glare at him.

"No, I'd love to stay," Kyle says, and I know instinctively he's got on his face that winning grin, but that at the same time on the inside he's smirking up a storm. Undoubtedly, afterwards he'll attempt to come to my room with me. I won't let that happen. He's won three battles, but he won't win the war.

By the time dinner's over, I'm nearly ready to puke. Apparently while I've been hiding away in Boulder, Kyle's been coming home to South Park and feeding my parents a load of bull about how he's done me all these favors, and gotten all these friends (the ones I had before and only got back after _I_ showed them that_ he_ was a giant homo, he had no active role in it whatsoever and he knows it). They think he's been helping me. They've been praising him, and it's all I can do to make myself agree with them without my mom's delicious casserole reversing its course through my digestive tract.

"That was delicious as ever, Mrs. Marsh," Kyle compliments, and that's it for me.

"Excuse me, Mom, Dad," I say, rising from the table and making for the upstairs bathroom. Thank God there's going to be leftovers, there always is. I hurl. The casserole, the pizza, even remnants of my lunch all comes back up. Once I finish, I wash up and open the door to come face-to-face with Kyle.

"You alright?" he asks innocently, a curious and concerned expression plastered on his face.

I deck him.

"Get the fuck out of my house. Now."

"What the fuck was that for?"

"You just literally made me sick. You're a real piece of work, Broflovski. You have no concern for anything but your own twisted goals. Spare no expense, tell any lie, corrupt anybody that you have to, so long as you get what you want. I want you out of my house, and out of my life. And so help me God, if you ever try to get involved with anything involving me again, you will regret it. And it won't be pretty."

Kyle wants to argue back. I can see that he does. To discourage him, I raise my fist again. He sighs in frustration and slinks off. I walk into my room, slam the door, and pound my fist against it.

He's not going to give up on this. It's not in his nature. He's a tenacious son-of-a-bitch, and I've never known him to give up on anything in his life. Unfortunately for me, that means that since he's got a burning desire in his Jewish loins to be inside me, he's not going to stop until I've finally acquiesced.

No matter what he has to do.

Now I'm terrified.

**-.-**

**Notes: Boom, bitches! Sorry about the large time-skip between the last chapter and this one, but it's kind of a necessity so that we can get to the real meaty part of this story. The climax is in sight (bow-chicka-bow-wow)! Next chapter will also have a timeskip, but will set us up for the two (yes, two!) climactic chapters.**

**The ETA on the next chapter is somewhere around mid-July. I've got a 4 day weekend coming up in 3 weeks, so maybe I can make some headway there, but I won't guarantee an update then.**

**Later!**

**Phoenix II**


	27. At School XI

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See prologue**

**Summary: Kyle's Master Plan is revealed. But you know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men…**

**-.-**

_At School XI_

**-.-**

After the incident at the start of winter break, I haven't heard from nor seen anything of Kyle. I count my blessings for this, too, because it's granted me another three Kyle-free months. Of course, just because I'm not being harassed every waking moment by Kyle trying to convince me I like him does not mean at all that he's not. No, he's probably at this very second working on some devious scheme that he is 100 percent convinced will make me the Scarlett O'Hara to his Rhett Butler. Though his analogy is inherently flawed in that Rhett Butler wasn't a ginger douche, and Scarlett wasn't the one who didn't give a damn.

Also, while he's not trying to convince me to give up my resistance personally, he hasn't done anything to dissuade Matt from doing so. He's taken to giving me "surprise blowjobs" once every week or so, pinning me to my bed and raping my dick with his mouth before spitting out the result somewhere on my body. I think he's working his way up towards my face, the very idea of which grosses me out. I can't even think of any substance known to man that would be able to sanitize my poor face after such a thing.

It has been getting nearer to Spring Break, though. And I can't shake this feeling I've developed in my gut over the last couple weeks that I'm in for a horrific surprise courtesy of one Kyle Broflovski. Especially considering he'll have had almost week before I get home to wreak whatever havoc he wishes, due to C-State's Break being this week, a week before ours. All the same, though, I'll get home Friday afternoon, meaning there will be a three-day overlap in which he can attempt further wooing.

This time, I think, I'll _break_ his Goddamn nose.

My dark musings on the myriad number of ways in which I would like to inflict bodily harm upon my male suitor are interrupted by the opening bars of the CU fight song. My phone is ringing. Digging it out of my pocket, I check the caller ID…I'm getting a call from home.

"Hello?" I ask tentatively, not entirely sure as to why Mom or Dad is calling me at half past two on a Tuesday afternoon.

"Stanley!" It's Mom, and she sounds pretty damn excited about something. Though the timing of this is _damn_ convenient…but there's no way it's something about Kyle already. He's only been home, at the most, three days.

"What, Mom?" Might as well find out what it is that's making her sound like she just won the Powerball jackpot or the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes or something.

"Your father just got off the phone with the Director of the USGS in Washington! You're never going to believe this…you remember that dormant volcano outside of town? The one that erupted during your little hunting trip with your uncle and your friends back when you were in elementary school?" Mom asks. I get a sinking feeling in my stomach, and a chill over the rest of me simultaneously.

"What about Mt. Evanston?" I ask, caution quite evident in my voice. Actually, it's more like dread, in accordance with the overwhelming feeling that's washing over me like a tidal wave of despair and doom.

"It erupted again just the other day, with a couple pretty serious aftershocks. Actually knocked in a few houses, and wiped out a whole herd of cattle belonging to some big-shot rancher who knows a person who knows a person who is somebody in the USGS. Anyway. They're hiring your Dad back, since obviously that thing needs full-time monitoring again, so they're re-opening his old office, AND they're giving him a promotion, so he'll be the Associate Director of the Geologic Hazards Science Center for the Rocky Mountain region in charge of the South Park field station with five other scientists reporting TO him, AND they're giving him a hiring bonus that's equal to the amount of money he would have earned working for them these last five years! Five hundred thousand dollars, Stanley!!" She's squealing like a sixteen-year-old Chess Club girl who just got a date with the 3rd string kicker and thinks she'll be popular because she's dating a jock.

On my end of the phone, my eyes have bugged out. Five hundred grand…plus he'll probably be making at least 200 more a year as an Associate Director of whatever the fuck it was all that she said. There's no way that this is a coincidence. The timing just screams to me that this is all a setup.

"Stanley?" Mom asks, because I'm too quiet. She sounds worried, confused that I'm not as excited as she is. "Isn't that great news?"

"Yeah…" I croak out, horrified. "Just wonderful." Obviously, this is what Kyle's been planning the last three months. He's been figuring out just how to induce an eruption in a volcano, simultaneously trigger an earthquake, and engineer it just so that it would wipe out a valuable herd of cattle of someone with some influence over someone who could make something happen in D.C.

"Are you OK honey?" she asks. "You sound like someone just killed your dog." Maybe its just that I'd rather not thing I'm being romantically pursued by a person whose moral compass is so damn skewed that any action he thinks will serve him well in his attempts to win me he does without any question of the ethics of doing it, or without even giving the slightest thought to the Goddamn consequences.

"I'm fine," I lie, still sounding sickened. "It's just…a shock, is all." A shock is putting it mildly. A shock is what you get when someone you'd never even noticed before tells you they want to do unspeakable things in bed with you, and they turn out to be the hottest person in school. This is like charging a defibrillator to 360 joules, sneaking up behind somebody and literally giving them the shock of their life.

"Oh, well of course," Mom says. "That's totally understandable, dear. I mean, I just barely calmed down enough to call you. I wasn't even understandable for the first twenty minutes after they hung up, I had to wait to call you!" She's completely blind to the fact that this in all likelihood was not supposed to happen. But God forbid I kill the moment. I'll let her be happy and enjoy this; God knows she and Dad deserve it after the last five years. But as for me…

"I'll call you back later," I say. "I need some time to process this…" Before she can get another word in edgewise, I hang up the phone, turn its ringer off, toss it unceremoniously in my desk drawer, weakly stand and stagger over to my bed, where I flop down on my stomach and bury my head in my pillow, right arm dangling like a moron off the bed. If you had been standing in the doorway watching me, you probably would have thought I'd had a heart attack or something and was about to die. You wouldn't be entirely wrong, as I do feel like I could just kick it…though from disgust and mortification, not from any real physical problem.

I have a grimace on my face while I process what Mom just told me, and what I at least know to be the cause of it. It means that the boy who's trying to get in my pants took more than a repeated string of anti-Semitic hate speech from Cartman; he also apparently picked up his complete self-centeredness, and utter disregard for the well-being of anybody who poses a problem to his getting something he wants. The ruthlessness is also new, and worrying, though probably more attributable to frustration and cool, calculated logic than anything.

After all, they were just cows. And houses. You can buy more cows and houses, they're replaceable. But that doesn't mean you just slaughter and destroy them at your whim, especially when they're not yours to begin with. If word ever got out, Kyle would be in for a load of restitution. Good luck to him in paying it, too. Of course, he probably left _that_ particular tidbit out of his cost-benefit analysis; which probably had tons and tons of costs, and only one potential benefit: more Stan shagging, which is of course NOT happening.

It would be my luck, of course, that Matt would walk in to see me in such a state.

"Who died?" he asks, a worried look on his face. I scowl. Why does everybody associate a mood like the one I'm in with death?

"All the remaining shreds of rationality, sanity, and normality in my life," I respond morosely.

"Emo much?" Matt asks. "Seriously, what the fuck's going on?"

"Your buddy," I tell him, "just caused a volcano eruption that got my Dad his old job for the government back, with a promotion and a five hundred grand bonus."

Matt lets out a long, low, impressed whistle. "Damn. But then why are you so damn miserable?"

"Because now when I tell him I don't want to have anything to do with him this weekend, he'll try and guilt trip me by spinning me this story of all he's done for me and why won't I just stop being a stubborn bastard and give in to my secretly held desires and quit repressing yourself and you know you and I belong together blah, blah, blah, blah, blah," I finish. Matt blinks.

"First off, you _are _a stubborn bastard, and you really do need to quit it. Second, you and I both know you secretly like men; you're just too ashamed to admit it to yourself. Obviously you weren't molested enough by your priest, little Catholic boy."

I interrupt him. "I was _never_ molested by my priest. And the sheer thought of him naked is going to keep me from sex for a week!"

Matt continues. "Third, which kinda is really also the back half of number two, you're seriously repressed. It's not healthy, Stan. You wanna fuck me, try to get used to the feeling of a guy underneath you instead of a soft, supple girl?"

"Kyle topped," I mumble, and Matt howls with glee.

"Really? Well then, you'll have to let me give you some tips! It can be really pleasurable if you let it. I can lend you a book and some toys, if you want."

"No!" I exclaim. "It's not something I ever plan on happening again! And that's the whole damn problem, because Kyle quite obviously _does_, and Kyle has a very bad habit of always, eventually, getting what he wants."

"Really, Stan, you're getting your boxers in a bunch," Matt says. "Just go with the flow."

"No," I snarl savagely. "Because _the flow_ is from Kyle's dick inside me after half an hour of sweaty, sticky gay sex." I think Matt just got hard. He's got a funny look on his face, and he's drooling a little.

"That's hot." Goddamnit, Matt! "That is hot. The thought of you, the reluctant little sub, moaning in ecstasy for reasons you don't fully understand and can't control, while Kyle's sexy, chiseled bod thrusts into you…holy shit, I think I'm gonna jizz in my pants…"

"Oh for God's sake!" I exclaim. "Get a hold of yourself. I know you're Kyle's right-hand man in this, but can you at least see things from my side of it for once?"

"Nope, sorry," Matt says with a grin. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go resolve the issue you just caused." He slides off his bed and slinks into the bathroom. With a groan, I roll over to stare at my ceiling.

This is just fucking hopeless. I can't stay here over break, because Mom would have a fit, and I can't go home, because Kyle will try to rape me again. And this time, he'll use the puppy-dog eyes. I know he's got 'em, because he used 'em all the time when we were kids. The puppy-dog eyes are irresistible.

And if not…

Well, he was right last time. All he has to do is make a ridiculous bet with me again, and I'll end up with my ankles over his shoulders and his dick in my ass again. Undoubtedly, he'll try some stupid trick to get me naked and in his bed again while I'm home, and there's no way I won't run into him, since Dad'll be dragging me all across town trying to spend as much of that bonus money as he can.

Maybe I can at least get a new car…

**-.-**

**Notes: I know, I know. Not the strongest chapter of the story…honestly, it looked better on paper when I planned it out. It should have been over after 1000 words, but I somehow forced it over the 2000 threshold.**

**Next month, Stan goes home…and behaves like a jackass.**

'**Til then!**

**Phoenix II**


	28. At Home V

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See prologue**

**Summary: **

**-.-**

_At Home V_

**-.-**

I return home Friday evening much to my chagrin. I swung back and forth between returning and not returning several times over the last thirty-six hours. I was actually decided on not returning, until Matt informed me that my staying would ruin his marathon of gay bondage pornos.

I very cautiously pull onto my street. Much to my surprise, Kyle's car is nowhere to be seen. Not in my driveway, not on the curb, not on the opposite curb. If he's here, he walked. Since he doesn't walk anywhere, I think I'm safe for tonight. Maybe the Feds figured out Kyle was behind the volcano exploding and arrested him. Oh if only I had that kind of luck…

I pull into the driveway, get out of the car and walk into the house, where my jaw drops. Over the last three days, Mom and Dad have almost totally re-done the entryway. There's new carpeting, new furniture…I think there's actually still plastic on some of the stuff in here.

"I'm home!" I call, to what seems like an empty house. I walk through a couple of other rooms, noting a new dining room set and a whole new set of kitchen appliances before returning to the living room, where Dad is halfway down the stairs.

"There you are! Come upstairs, son, your mom and I have something to show you!"

"Did you re-do my room too?" I ask, dropping my bags in the hallway.

"Not the whole thing…just…come see, son." I sigh and follow Dad upstairs. I walk into my room and find a plasma screen TV on my wall and a new top-of-the-line desktop computer in place of my old boxy TV and late 90s computer. New lush carpeting, a new desk chair, and what looks suspiciously like a new bed complete the renovations to my room.

"Holy shit!" I exclaim, quite impressed.

"And! The _coup-de-grace_," Dad says, opening my closet door and pulling something out.

"An amp?"

"For your guitar, Stanley! Here, I've already hooked her up for you…" Dad says, picking up my guitar by the neck and handing her to me. "Have a go?"

"Got anything in particular you want to here?"

"Well…it's by Kansas…"

"Of course…" I say with a wry smile, taking a seat on my bed, which does not creak, indicating further that it is in fact a new bed, and giving a few test strums before launching into "Carry On Wayward Son." The chords fly fast and furious from my fingers.

_Once I rose above the noise and confusion_

_Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion_

_I was soaring ever higher_

_But I flew too high_

As I normally do whenever I play music, I think more about, and concentrate more on the lyrics I'm singing than the actual notes I'm playing. This song is actually fitting. I wish it wasn't, but in the year or so since I found out what was behind Kyle's years-long distancing from me – or "the illusion", if you will – I've gotten myself into things I'd much rather not have gotten myself into. Even a miserable life hovering around the poverty line, alone and nearly destitute, would be preferable to a life where I'm being pursued by a sex-crazed gay Jew who won't stop until he gets me to be his boyfriend and fuckbuddy.

_Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man_

_Though my mind could think I still was a mad man_

_I hear the voices when I'm dreaming_

_I can hear them say_

_Carry on my wayward son_

_There'll be peace when you are done_

_Lay your weary head to rest_

_Don't you cry no more_

_Masquerading as a man with a reason_

_My charade is the event of the season_

_And if I claim to be a wise man, well_

_It surely means that I don't know_

_On a stormy sea of moving emotion_

_Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean_

_I set a course for winds of fortune_

_But I hear the voices say_

_Carry on my wayward son_

_There'll be peace when you are done_

_Lay your weary head to rest_

_Don't you cry no more_

_Carry on, you will always remember_

_Carry on, nothing equals the splendor_

_Now your life's no longer empty_

_But surely heaven waits for you_

_Carry on my wayward son_

_There'll be peace when you are done_

_Lay your weary head to rest_

_Don't you cry _

_Don't you cry no more_

Mom's standing in the doorway when I finish, holding an envelope in her hands.

"That was good, Stanley!" she says. "I'm sorry I wasn't in here when Randy came and got you, I had to take care of something in the other room. Do you like the new things?"

"Yeah, they're nice," I say. I notice then that she's holding an envelope in her hands.

"What's that?" I ask.

"Oh, this?" Mom asks, holding up the letter. I nod. "It came for you in the mail today. No return address. It's pretty thick."

"I see that," I say, holding my hand out. Mom places the letter in my hand. I open it up and pull out six sheets of expensive-looking paper. One quick glance at the handwriting tells me who it's from, and apparently my anger radiates through the room because both Mom and Dad ask me at the same time if I'm all right.

"It's from Kyle," I say darkly, and that pretty much says it all. "Could I have some privacy, please?"

Mom and Dad both back out of the room at the same time and shut the door behind them, leaving me to read Kyle's latest screed.

_My Dearest Stan, _it begins, and I'm already about to puke

_By now you have probably heard from your Mom and Dad about your Dad's new job with the USGS. I hope I'm the first amongst our old friends to welcome you back to the status quo. It's been far too long without you, and now that you're able to do the type of things we do, I can't wait to see you around._

_On a personal note, I hope you don't think that I'm trying to bribe you with this gift. It's becoming very frustrating watching you dither about, clearly in denial about what you want in life and who you want it from. You know and you know that you know that you and I are supposed to spend eternity together. I know this, deep in my heart, and if you'd de-thaw yours for five fucking seconds you'd know it too._

_I can't begin to express to you how important it is for you to come to your senses. I'll wait for you until the day you die, but it really will be better for both of us for you to come around sooner, when we're both young and sexy, rather than later, when we won't be. Wrinkly sex just doesn't appeal to me._

I put on one of my patented scowling frowns at this. I can't imagine anyone who wrinkly sex _would_ appeal to, besides my Grampa. And he was, all things considered, a bit of a creep. Deciding against reading further ramblings of Kyle's sex-obsessed mind, I skip ahead until I find what I'm looking for, starting on the bottom of the next to last page.

_You probably believe I'm entirely responsible for the volcanic eruption that got your Dad his job back. If you do, I don't need to tell you how utterly ridiculous that belief is. How would I even do it? Lug a giant case of baking soda and a tanker-truck full of vinegar up the side of Mt. Evanston? You can be a real idiot sometimes, you know that Stan?_

_Bah, I'm digressing. The volcano was going to erupt anyway. I took a geology class my first semester and the professor talked about our volcano when we were discussing the volcanic rocks, and let slip that it was predicted for an eruption sometime before Easter. So I decided then and there that I would try to use that to my advantage. If the volcano had a somewhat big eruption that caused some semi-significant property damage, the government could realize they made a mistake in shutting down the South Park field station, could re-open it, re-hire your dad, and get you back on the road to being the boy you should be now, which is definitely NOT the boy you ARE now._

_I'll admit, I nearly jizzed in my pants when I found out who that rancher was related to. That was the missing piece in my plans, where to direct the lava flow? Once I found out the connections he had, I decided to focus my efforts on getting the most of the lava to go in that direction._

_My plan worked, thankfully, and succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. I wasn't expecting them to give him that large a hiring bonus, but I suppose that's what you can do when the government's handing out billions of dollars willy-nilly._

_Anyway, I hope your mom gets this letter to you before I have to leave this weekend. I'll be waiting for you._

_Love with hugs and French kisses,_

_Your loving bf,_

_Kyle_

_XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO_

I want to stab him. I want to stab him over and over again until he is a bloody, unrecognizable mess. Or at the very least yell at him until he's reduced to tears again. That usually works to alleviate my anger at him, and is also mildly satisfying once I finish.

Folding the letter back up, I stuff it in my jeans pocket and storm out of my room. Mom and Dad are in the living room, and are looking at me curiously as I move towards the door.

"I'm going to Kyle's," I say, and they turn away, curiosity satisfied. I stalk outside and over to my car. I know the route by heart, down two streets, hang a left, two more blocks hang a right, a block and a half and there's his house. I put the car into park, stalk up the drive and knock loudly on the door. Ike answers it.

"I need to talk to your brother," I mutter, pushing my way past him and taking the stairs two at a time and walking into his room without knocking, slamming the door behind me. He's laying on his bed, earbuds in his ears and iPod resting on his chest. Of course, the loud bang interrupts whatever fruity-ass music he's listening to, and causes his head to jerk up and look around manically, eyes quickly finding me.

"Evening," I say coolly. He's out of bed quickly.

"I wasn't expecting you this quickly," he says with a smile.

"Save it," I snap. "I'm not here to tell you I love you and jump into bed with you again."

He stops in his tracks.

"I'm here because this," I say, pulling out the letter and brandishing at him, "pissed me off like _crazy_. I am crazy pissed at you." I pause to let it sink in before I launch into him again.

"Who the _FUCK_ do you think you are, trying to meddle with my psyche _ex post facto_? You don't like who I am now? Well maybe you should have thought of that _BEFORE_ you decided to be a douchebag and turned me into what I am now! You and your family are obviously well-off, what the fuck stopped you from helping me and my family out when we needed it? That's what friends do, Kyle, they _HELP_ each other, not drop each other like hot fucking potatoes! I wouldn't have cared if you were secretly harboring feelings for me! For Christ's sake, even sleeping in a bed with somebody who dreams of fucking you is better than sleeping in a bed where half the time you're in serious danger of freezing to death! Asking a friend for a ride is better than being the only damn person my age on the bus! _ANYTHING_ is better than eating Ramen Noodles three nights out of the week!" I pause by necessity here, because I need to breathe, but I go back on the offensive as soon as I have the necessary air.

"You simply can't fucking expect me to change myself to suit _your _desires when I _hate_ you! How many times do I have to punch you in the face before you get the goddamn message that I don't want you in my life!? When will you get it through your fucking SKULL!? I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU! You're a selfish, arrogant, inconsiderate douchebag who doesn't consider anything but what you want and how to get it! There's nobody alive who could love a person like that. _SATAN_ wouldn't love you! Who the fuck do you think is ever going to want to be with you, if you're going to be so damn relationship-retarded?

"You need to stay the fuck out of my life, and fucking quit trying to change me into what you want me to be. Don't make me get a restraining order."

With that, I throw the letter at his head and stalk out of the room, only to find my path down the stairs blocked by Ike.

"We need to talk."

"If it's about Kyle, I don't wanna hear it," I say, and move to push Ike out of my way, but the little bastard (well, not so little anymore) won't budge, and instead grabs my arm and drags me towards his room.

"It is about Kyle, and you NEED to hear it," he says, his grip on me iron-strong. He locks the door when he gets me into his room, and shoves me into his desk chair.

"Get ready to have the door closing your mind kicked in."

**-.-**

**Notes: This took TOO. DAMN. LONG! Now to keep the schedule, I'm going to have to combine the next two chapters into September's installment so that I can wrap it up on October 21. Damnit.**

**On a brighter note, I am encouraged by all the reviews, even the late ones =P If we can get this story to 250 reviews or, dare I say it, 300, I will be astounded!**

**Thanks and see you next time,**

**Phoenix II**


	29. Elsewhere VI

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See prologue**

**Summary: Kyle's side of the story**

**-.-**

_Elsewhere VI_

**-.-**

"Really?" I ask Ike. "Kick the door to my closed mind in? Well, I'll give you credit for re-inventing the 'blow your mind' cliché', but beyond that, I think you're in for a rude surprise if you think anything you can say to me can change my mind about your dick of a brother."

"I know," Ike says. "That's what's gonna make it so much sweeter when I succeed."

"OK," I sigh, leaning back in the chair. "Do your worst."

He pulls a black binder off his bookshelf and thrusts it into my hands.

"Kyle's blog entries that pertain to you, dating back to the summer before your Dad lost his job. Get reading," the young Canadian orders me. "I think you'll find it…enlightening."

I look down at the binder, but don't open it. It's one of the really thick, three inch binders. From the look and feel of it, it's full. While I consider the two options of wasting the rest of my night plowing through this anthology or throwing it back at Ike and following through on my original plan of getting the fuck away from the Broflovski home, Kyle's devious younger brother has cuffed my ankles together and run a belt around me and the chair. It's only when I try to make a move to leave that I realize this, glaring at Ike in protest.

He shrugs. "I figured you'd try to leave rather than read through nearly four years of Kyle's sappy blog entries. Truth be told, if I were in your position, I'd try to do the same. But it's fairly imperative for the both of you that you settle your stubborn ass down and start reading. Protesting only means it's going to take you longer to finish."

"You're a real creep, you know that?" I ask under my breath, opening the front cover. "I can just see you ending up working for the FBI or something and setting records for both solved cases and harassment complaints."

"Whatever. Just read."

_14 July_

_I think there's something wrong with me. For going on three weeks now, I've been having wet dreams about Stan. You know, my best friend. There's pics of him all over this thing, he's the cute boy with the black hair._

_Anyway, the dreams. I've never had sex (I'm only 14, for God's sake), but we're always _naked_ in these dreams. They've never been in the same place (first time it was in a forest, last night it was in like, a sauna), but we're always naked, and kissing, and he's touching me … there. You know where. Unless you're Ike, in which case, why the fuck are you reading this and not doing your AP Physics homework?_

_He's got a gorgeous body. I mean, IRL, not just in the dreams. I've showered with him for going on five years now, I've seen how he's developed… and he's gorgeous. Especially when he's sweating in the sun… and he's not lacking anywhere. Except he could maybe stand to lose a couple pounds off his ass. _

_Anyway. He's a good kisser in the dreams. He knows just how to touch me, to drive me crazy and moan his name._

_Why the hell am I having these dreams?_

I note that Ike has helpfully annotated these entries with hand-written comments. At the end of this one, he answers Kyle's question by replying "Because you're gay, dumbass." And draws a picture of Kyle on his knees sucking me off.

_23 July_

_9 more gay wet dreams about Stan. I've tried everything to stave them off. I've imagined him with pimples on every part of his body. I've imagined him covered in vaginas again. I've tried to picture him wearing a day-glo orange vest, neon pink pants, and hi-liter yellow shoes. I've tried imagining myself naked with Bebe. Nothing works. Dream-Stan continues to be gorgeous, naked, not-Bebe, and an expert at making me cum myself._

_I guess that makes me gay for my best friend. Let the cliché teen angst begin. /sarcasm_

Ike on this one notes "You fail at sarcasm. I wonder how good you are at orgasm."

_16 August_

_Football practice began today. I don't think I need to remind you that football practice involves me and Stan showering together after getting all hot and bothered, sweating our asses off on the field. I had to make excuses as to why I couldn't go into the shower with him right away, because I had sprung a rather unfortunate erection as soon as he began taking his clothes off after practice._

_After I got home, I went into my room and locked my door and started to jack off. It took me half an hour to come, and Stan was stripping in my mind the whole damn time. I don't think he even knows how damn sexy he looks when he takes his clothes off._

Ike is fairly disgusted by this one. "I could have done without you reminding me. Gag. At least you have endurance, that's good. I think."

_17 August_

_I might have a way to get rid of my unfortunate attraction to Stan. Break off our friendship for a bit. Just a few weeks of distance from him should be enough to do it, if it works. If it does, I'll be obsessing about a different boy, and I think Stan would be more open to me being gay if I had a boyfriend who wasn't him. If it doesn't, I'll make an awkward apology about needing some time to myself to think about some stuff, and life will go on, and I'll just have to pretend I don't want to pin him to a wall and ravish him._

Ike is fairly sarcastic this time. "Brilliant plan, dumbass. Seriously, how the hell do you make As if this is the best get-over-inconvenient-crush plan you can come up with?"

_25 August_

_Day 1_

_Plan is in action. And it's really convenient too, since Stan's dad got fired last week, he doesn't have any time to hang with me anyway. So it was a lot easier to break off the friendship. Now I just need to find another boy to obsess over and/or date. Shouldn't be too hard, should it? I can't be the only gay boy in town…_

Ike's thoughts on this one are rather blunt "Wendy's a gay boy, go fuck him." I think he was trying to be witty and failed miserably. I know from experience that Wendy is a straight girl. Then again…straight girls like guys, and gay guys like guys, so…

_25 September_

_Day 32_

_Plan is not working. I found three extremely sexy guys in school over the last three weeks, all of which are at least bi-curious, and have spent a week or so with each trying to get them to replace Stan in my cock-loving mind. Not working. Maybe I should stop staring at black-haired boys? Try a blond or two? Maybe another redhead? Can't hurt, can it?_

_Also, thinking about changing the secondary title of this blog to "One Gayboy's Struggle Against Hormones and High School." Thoughts?_

Ike has one, certainly. "Gay. But so are you, so maybe it works for you. I dunno how the fuck you think things through."

_30 September_

_Day 37_

_Plan is a disaster, and not just because blonds and redheads aren't effective mental replacements for Stan either. I was on my way to apologize to him today, about to effect Plan B, when I saw Cartman and a gang of five or six other guys corner him down the drama wing and beat the shit out of him._

_It was…brutal. They had him cornered, on the ground, all curled up, and they wouldn't stop kicking him. I was scared they were going to kill him. Even after they'd had their fun, did I do the right thing and go to my former best friend and comfort him? Did I call for help? Did I do anything besides realize that this was why he had been walking around with a limp and in pain all the time lately?_

_No._

_I didn't._

_Because I'm a coward, and I was afraid if I'd gotten any closer to him I would kiss him senseless, confess my desire for him and promise to stay with him until he got better, no matter what._

_I couldn't do that. I just watched him lay on the floor, twitching and moaning with pain for fifteen minutes, maybe half an hour, before he picked himself up off and hobbled away, clutching lockers and walls for support._

_I skipped practice. I felt sick to my stomach. I came home and spent an hour in the shower, almost scalding hot, trying to wash myself clean of my disgusting cowardice. I had betrayed him, betrayed the boy I wanted more than everything I had._

_How the hell am I going to be able to ever face him after this?_

"You're not going to. You pansy-ass coward. Where you get off pretending you're this big tough guy is beyond me," Ike writes, and you can feel the venom in his words. He obviously printed these and wrote this recently. "No wonder Stan thinks you're the scum of the Earth. You are."

_October 18_

_Day 55_

_Life is miserable. I can't even look at Stan anymore, because it almost makes me sick to my stomach. They work him over every other day or so. I know because I watch. I can't help myself. Watching him get beat to within a couple inches of his life makes my mind fantasize about any number of possible ways for me to comfort him that I'll never act on._

_Because I'm a damn coward. Instead of being upfront with Stan about my feelings, I shoved him away and now look what's happening to him. Instead of helping him out with all the things he needs help with – most namely Cartman, and all the problems he has at home with his dad being unemployed – I've been a total dick and neglected my best friend just because I want to fuck him silly._

There isn't any snarky statement by Ike beneath this one. Just an ellipsis. "…", and nothing else.

_November 21_

_Day 89_

_We won State today. I was given the MVP trophy, and as the rest of the guys hoisted me onto their shoulders, I cried. They looked like tears of happiness to everybody else at the game, but not to me. I knew that they were true tears of sadness._

_I don't deserve that trophy. It should have gone to our quarterback. Our _real _quarterback, not the fill-in we have because I got rid of our last one. Stan should have that trophy. I should be celebrating with him later over pizza and stolen beer, but instead I'm going to be celebrating it alone, and Stan… I don't know._

_He wasn't here tonight. I can't blame him, because it's not exactly right down the road, but he's never at games. I looked for him every week. He was never there. That worries me. Football's always been his passion; you'd think he'd at least show up to watch some of the games._

_I hope he's not doing it cause he's mad at me._

Ike's commentary is harsh on him, scathingly informing Kyle that I'm working to help my family, while he gallivants around playing sports and nailing bitches. I glance up at Ike, who's sitting on his bed, calmly staring at me.

"How've you enjoyed the first set?" he asks. "They're the ones with the most of the references to you. A lot of the rest have just passing mentions of you, but there's still a few you'll be interested in. They're the ones I've got marked with the little hi-liter tabs," he informs me. I feel around the top of the binder for one such tab, because I certainly can't see one. Finding one, I flip to it, hoping it's the first.

It is.

_19 December_

_Day 1213_

_I talked to Stan today!_

_Well, sorta. I mean, I was going to talk to him. I really was. There's been a couple things he's been doing lately that've gotten me even more worried about him. Like smoking and drinking. I can smell it on him because I'm so used to it on my broletariat._

_I wasn't planning on doing it today. But then Wendy came out of the coffee shop he works at and told me he said to tell me to have a nice day, so I decided to drop her off, and come back and talk to him after work._

_I came back and saw him go into the back room. I saw his bag and coat on the floor. I figured I could talk to him on his way out, since it was almost closing time. But he sent out his manager who lied in my face about whose bag and coat that was on the floor._

_After that, I drove over to his house and decided to wait for him to get home, and I'd talk to him then. But he took too goddamn long, so I sent my friends out looking for him to bring him to me. Butters found him, but Stan kicked him in the balls and escaped._

_I didn't get to talk to him. And it's Christmas Break now. So I won't see him again until New Year's. But I will talk to him. I promise._

The next tabbed entry is an incident I recall _very_ well: when he showed up at work and we had the first of our arguments at work.

_3 March_

_Day 1267_

_I'm not lying this time when I say I spoke to Stan today. I had to work for it, but I spoke to him. I met up with him at work, while was singing a classic rock song (he has a _beautiful_ voice. Have I mentioned he plays guitar? He does that awesomely too.) and we talked afterwards._

_Kinda. He didn't really wanna talk to me. He yelled at me a lot, called me a dick, a kike, and he wouldn't use my first name. Then he went back to work and I decided to change my strategy._

_I went out to the alley where he takes his smoke breaks, and I figured that lighting up with him would be a good way to break the ice. I figured wrong. He's turned into a bitter jackass. He actually thinks _I'M_ the one who was behind all the beatings._

_I almost wanna be sick. I don't even know how the hell he got it in his head that I could even do something like that to him. I'm not sure I wanna know._

_I feel bad…both for him, for everything that's happened to him, and for myself, for allowing it to happen._

Ike's comments this time are not directed to Kyle, but to me. "You may remember this as around the time Kyle started giving you presents to try and win your affection. There are several more entries dealing with his frustration that his tactics weren't working with you, but there's something you should know about the behind-the-scenes action during those couple weeks. Kyle was despondent. He would barely eat; he wouldn't talk to any of us. When I did hear anything from him, it was muted mutterings when I walked past his room, and muted sobs through my wall at night. You did a damn good job of making him miserable. I want you to know that, and it better not make you happy."

Well, truth be told, I kind of am, but I don't let Ike see it, lest he kick me in the head or something. Instead, I just turn to the next tabbed entry.

_20 March_

_Day 1284_

_A lot of things happened today. First, I had another argument with Stan. It ended with me pinning him to the wall and kissing him._

_He laughed at me. I was hurt. He called me "Bro-fag-ski." I wanted to murder him._

_Then, at gym, I teased him a little, and he responded by throwing a basketball in my face, broke my nose, busted my lip, and knocked me on the floor. Then I punched him in the face. I got sent to the nurse for a little bit, got an ice pack until the swelling went down and I stopped bleeding, but it was the end of the day that was the kicker._

_The gang and I were heading for the exit when we heard a loud attention-getting whistle, and we all turn around to see Stan, who starts sauntering towards me, swaying his hips like a sex-starved nymphomaniac, and comes up to me and tries to suck my face off before breaking the kiss and leaving with a grin on his face. I'm in a state of euphoria until everyone comes to their senses and realize Stan just exposed my biggest secret, and proceed to beat me senseless._

_It was almost five thirty before I came to. I had thirty texts calling me some variation of "fucking fag" and several missed calls from Mom wondering where I was. If this is an indication of how bad the next few months are gonna be for me, and how bad the last few years have been for Stan, I think I have a new reason to be sick…_

Glancing up at Ike, it's clear he expects a reaction out of me, but I don't really have one to give him. I suppose they were a little harsh on him, knocking him the fuck out, but there was a difference in our situations. They beat the shit out of me because I was poor and they could. They beat the shit out of Kyle because he's gay and they could. Being gay is worse than being poor, especially in Colorado.

"There's one more I want you to see," Ike says, coming over to me and turning to it himself. "Read."

_28 August_

_Day 1445_

_If last night was the best night of my life, this has been the worst day of my life. Last night, I finally got Stan in bed. It was on a bet, but I got him in bed, naked, and he let me inside him. He didn't say it, but I could see from his facial expression that he enjoyed it. So it was a real surprise when I woke up this morning hugging my pillow instead of him. I spent the next eight hours trying to track him down, only to find out from Matt he'd left me, gone over to Bebe's and gotten his ass into a Goddamn _threesome_ with two girls. The utter gall of him to get his ass pounded and then within a day fuck not one but _two_ girls!_

_Sometimes I just wish Stan would realize I'm not trying to steal his soul, or convert him to homosexuality, or corrupt his virtues. I'm just trying to get him back. He's always been mine, and this is the only way I can keep him mine. Maybe I've been a little too conniving, rushed things a little, but he should have realized by now that he's at least a little bit interested in me. I mean, really. Anybody else put in the situation he's in would have either shot me or gotten a restraining order by now. Since he's done neither, there's a place inside him (I'm guessing his prostate) that wants me. I don't care how slow I have to take it. I don't care if takes 10 years until he trusts me enough to have sex with me again._

_I just want to be with him, and he's too damn stubborn to see that he belongs with me._

As soon as I finish the entry, Ike snatches the binder from my hands and snaps it shut.

"Do you fucking get it now?" he asks. "I'm not going to try and justify any of the shit he put you through up until February, and I'm not going to apologize for him and say that he was doing it for some grandiose, selfless reason, because he was trying to save his own ass and things got away from him. The most important thing, though, is that he's been trying to make things right for the last damn year and you're just being a stubborn dick."

"Who doesn't _like_ dick, thank you very much."

"Oh save your pithy retorts," Ike snaps. "If you knew how to fucking comprehend what's written in front of you, you would be able to put two and two to-fucking-gether. The facts are thus: One, Kyle loves you. Two, you have willingly allowed you and Kyle to have sex. Three, as my ever-rationalizing brother said, you haven't shot or obtained a restraining order against him, meaning four, you do not object to his presence in your life.

"The way I see it, you can take him up on the offer to take your pending relationship as slow as you want, because the two of you do need to get re-acquainted with one another, as dumb as that sounds, or you can be a dickhead, fool around with Bebe and whatever other girls she wants to play with until she gets bored with you and thus go through your life never having a meaningful relationship."

"So, in your brilliant opinion, if I don't get together with Kyle, I'm going to die a miserable old man?" I ask. "Somebody's already told me that one. I didn't believe it then, I don't now."

"Stan, everybody wants to have a life-long partner. If you think about it for any period of time, you'll realize Bebe is not in it for anything but sex. And maybe drinking, but even that leads to sex. You've got someone in the next room who would be in it for more than just sex, and you're seriously telling me you're going to throw away the chance for a meaningful relationship just because your potential partner has a cock? Not even you can be that damn stupid."

I'm quiet. What the hell is it about Broflovski boys pretending to know everything there is to know about me? They've got to me psychologists-in-training or something.

"You really think he'll agree to take it slow?"

"I do," Ike says. "Now, are you going to at least give him a shot? I don't think I need to go over the pros of doing so again."

"And I don't want you to either," I snap back, before sighing. "Fine. Untie me." Ike does as I ask, and I'm standing and walking to Kyle's room automatically. The door is cracked open. I push it open further, to see Kyle on his bed.

"Kyle?" I ask hesitantly, not sure if he's still awake. His head snaps up at the sound of my voice. His eyes are red, so he's either been crying or drinking after I left him in there a few hours ago.

"Why are you here?" he asks, voice raspy.

"Um," I say hesitantly. "I was talking with Ike, about you, actually. He showed me a few things…and we had a discussion about whether or not I should…reconsider what I said earlier."

"What the hell did he show you?"

"Blog posts," I answer. "Though the subtitle you picked was terrible."

"Yeah, you're not the first person to tell me that. So he made you read my blog posts?"

"Only about thirty, though I get the impression there were about 1400 more that probably have some sort of reference to me."

"Must have been a … judicious sampling."

"Yeah, he picked the good ones. Anyway…you're going to get what you want, with a few conditions." His eyes brighten, going from red to pink.

"Name them," he says, hopeful.

"Condition the first, _I_ decide when we have sex again. You try to hurry me back into bed, and the game's over. It may be a few months, it may be a few years, it may be ten or more years, but you will wait until I'm ready. OK?"

"Is that just on penetrating sex, or you putting a hold on all forms of physical intimacy?" Kyle asks, undoubtedly wanting me to be crystal clear so he knows what he can and cannot do.

"For now, it's a hold on anything more intimate than hugging. No kissing, no handjobs, no oral, no buttsex. I'll get around to letting you do the others if you behave yourself."

"OK," Kyle says, very even-toned. He's going to behave himself.

"Condition the second, until either I give her up or she gets bored with me, I'm still allowed to fool around with Bebe. Kyle, you need to accept that I'm at best bisexual. As much as it pains me to admit it, since Matt's going to go ballistic when I tell him, I'm willing to be with you, but I still like girls, OK?"

His expression darkens, but he agrees to this condition as well.

"Condition the third, you are going to take me out to dinner at least once every month. In Boulder, because I'm not setting foot in Fort Collins for all the money you schemed to get my Dad. If we're going to be conditionally together, we're going to put in the required effort."

"That won't be a problem," Kyle says. "Any other rules?"

"Not off the top of my head."

"Can I have a hug, then?"

"Sure, why not?" I counter, walking across the room to embrace my ex-best friend, and my new … boyfriend.

**-.-**

**Notes: And we've finally reached the end of regulation! Coming up on 21 October, an epilogue that will give these two a happy-ish ending. I may not have gotten this in on time, but come hell or high-water (and that second one's more of a danger, actually, given the weather lately), this story will be completed on 21 October.**

**Now that you've read the "get-together," feel free to tell me if you liked it or hated it, felt it was rushed, etc. Very few holds barred. I promise I won't seek you out to argue if you say something I don't like.**

**Till the 21****st****,**

**Phoenix II**


	30. Epilogue: Five Years Later

**Perchance to Dream**

**Disclaimer: See prologue.**

**Summary: The epilogue, where everything comes to a sort of end.**

**-.-**

_Epilogue: Five Years Later_

**-.-**

"Congratulations, Stan!"

I walk into the living room to a veritable explosion of celebration. Explosion, literally, because somehow they bought two confetti cannons and rigged them to go off when I opened the door. So now I'm deafened and covered in multi-colored bits of paper.

"You guys, this is a little much," I say, glancing around the room. There's a piñata hanging from the ceiling, and black and gold streamers hanging from everywhere possible.

"Much?" Kyle says, coming up from behind the couch and quickly giving me a kiss, "I don't think it's enough, myself. After all, you just graduated with a joint Master's degree in Environmental Science and law degree. We're going to celebrate this all night," he adds, winking at me and licking his lips as he steps away.

"We've got lunch and cake in the kitchen," Mom says, standing next to Dad and Kyle's parents by the loveseat. "And Ken and Matt are around here somewhere."

"Well, knowing those two, they're either getting themselves wicked drunk, or fucking each other silly," I reply, sitting on the couch. "And judging by the noise coming from upstairs, I'd say it's probably the latter. And it's only two o'clock. Good grief."

"Oh, Stan, don't be a prude," Kyle scolds, sitting next to me. "We'll turn on some music and drown them out. Besides, they're probably not even naked yet. You know what a tease Matt is."

Well, he's certainly right on that account. I remember vividly just how much my roommate loves his teasing. In fact, after I admitted to him that Kyle and I were in a relationship, he'd started trying to give my sex advice by demonstrating what to do when I was in a certain position. With other guys. Well-hung guys, while I was tied to my bed. And then video sessions afterwards, to make sure I'd "grasped the concepts."

This was even before the point where I felt comfortable letting Kyle touch me in any way that would be seen as anything but platonic. Matt knew this, but in his words it was better for me "to know everything you can do to him when the time comes." Which in a way made sense, but still kinda made me uneasy, being forced to watch my roommate get fucked silly every night and then go over it like it was a football game. That said, I did learn a lot, and it has definitely come in handy.

A lot has happened in the last five years, certainly. For starters, I got over my reluctance to being within groping distance of Kyle. That took all of the first summer, and during that time Kyle tried his hardest to get us to know each other again. We went to ballgames, dinners, parties, and at the end of it all, we were both really relaxed around each other. Before going back to school, I let Kyle give me kisses.

During school, we traded emails, phone calls, and weekends. I never expected to be so relieved to visit Fort Collins, but Matt's behavior during Kyle's trips to Boulder was ridiculous. He'd looked visibly affronted when Stan had told him he and Kyle would keep their pants ON in bed, thank you very much. He'd consistently pestered them, and laid not-at-all subtle hints about how I should be all for sharing a shower with Kyle…for the environment and the whales and everything.

Kyle, of course, had none of these problems, as he had his own room at CSU. Apparently there _are_ benefits to being an RA. Sleeping together was awkward at first, because Kyle is _always_ hard in the morning. I worked hard to shrug it off, but even the knowledge that I might wake up to his dick pressing up against me for the rest of my life didn't make it any easier at first to have its presence there.

At Christmas that year, Kyle gave me a puppy. As a quid pro quo, I used one of Matt's lessons, much to Kyle's surprise. What I did afterwards didn't surprise him at all, since I told him not to put me in a position to do that again for quite a while. He didn't listen, of course, and we started spending our weekends together with a lot fewer clothes on.

"Stan?" Kyle asks, startling me from my reverie. He has a plate in hand, with a large piece of cake and a few scoops of quickly melting ice-cream.

"Here, Mr. I-have-four-letters-after-my-name," he says with a grin. "It's your party, after all, we can't have you spending it staring off into space trying to block out – or is it imagine – what those two are getting up to up there?"

I glare at him, but take the plate. "God, thanks, I had almost gotten the thought of those two fucking out of my head."

"Sorry. But you've got to admit it's oddly appealing. Especially with Kenny's hair the way he's styling it now…" 

"Quit it!" I say, trying as hard as I can to push the picture of those two out of my head. It's proving to have a most infuriating staying power.

"Sorry," Kyle replies, wearing a grin that tells me he's anything _but_ sorry. "Just eat the cake already, the ice cream's gonna melt into it and make it soggy and disgusting if you don't hurry up about it."

Glaring at Kyle, I fork off a chunk of the cake and put it in my mouth. Biting down, I catch something hard…and circular. Taking care not to swallow it with the rest of the cake, I pull a diamond ring from my mouth, which is promptly snatched from my hand by Kyle.

"I'll take that, thank you," he says with a grin, dropping to a knee.

"Oh, you did _not_ –" I exclaim, before Kyle can grab my hand and look up at me expectantly.

"Marry me?" he asks, grinning like the idiot he is.

"You proposed to me by making me eat the ring!?" I ask, incredulously. "Why do I put up with you, again?"

"Because you love me," Kyle responds, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Which it is, but that's not the point.

"Still, you could have done better," I chide him. "What if I'd swallowed it?"

"Um," he says, quite eloquently. "Is that a yes?"

"Yes, it's a yes, you idiot," I tell him, and he slips the ring onto my finger. "Now get up off the floor before people think you're lavishing attention onto my crotch."

"Who says I'm not?" Kyle asks, winking at me. "In fact, I think I'd love nothing more right now than a celebratory blowjob."

"Well, you can't have one right now, since the only private room in the house is currently occupied by our errant sex fiend friends," I inform him. "And if you suggest we go up there and propose a foursome, I will breakup with you. I've seen more Matt naked more times than I would have cared to already, and I sure as hell don't want to see him naked and getting fucked silly by Kenny."

"You're no fun," Kyle says. "I suppose, then, since you're vetoing naked time, that we should tell the rest of them?"

"Tell us what?" Mom asks, coming back into the room and speaking before I can tell Kyle that that too is a bad idea. Too late now.

"That Kyle tried to get me to eat my engagement ring," I tell her. She smiles before what I said catches up with her.

"Tried to eat your…wait, what?"

"Engagement ring, mom. Kyle just proposed in the second cheesiest way I could imagine. In fact, it would have only been cheesier if he'd put the damn ring in nacho cheese."

"What did he put it in?" she asks.

"What did he put it in? The fucking cake, and I nearly swallowed it!" I exclaim, performing an exaggerated facepalm for effect. Mom laughs, before calling in Dad and Kyle's parents to tell them "our babies are engaged!" The two girls squeal, the two guys take long drinks from their beers.

"Really, the cake?" Gerald asks Kyle. "You couldn't have put it in the bottom of a champagne flute, or something classy? You had to go with the cake?"

Kyle shrugs. "It got the job done."

Toasts are proposed, and alcohol is drunk. A baseball game is turned on while we shoot the breeze and wait for Kenny and Matt to finish up so we can head to the restaurant for dinner. After three hours, I'm selected – as it's my house – to stop the creepy sex fest.

I decide against knocking, deciding to just barge in, and watch Kenny in the throes of orgasm, shooting off on Matt's stomach while Matt just lays there, on my bed, grinning.

"Hi Stan!" he says cheerfully. I groan.

"On my bed, Matt, really?"

"Well, this time," he says, his grin intensifying. "We also did it on your rug, your chair, your dresser, the windowsill…"

"So you've managed to get five orgasms out of him in the last…three hours?"

"New personal record," he replies. "For him too."

"Personal record for rounds in a day," Kenny replies, breathing heavily. "Jesus, I don't think I'm gonna need to fuck for a week."

"Well, I don't think I'm going to be able to," I say, grimacing. "Now I've got to Lysol my entire room and hope I get all of your…"

"Cum?" Matt asks, grinning like an idiot.

"Yes, that," I reply, now frowning, "out of my room. Now break it up, we're all starving downstairs and we need you two to take a break so we can go to dinner."

"No need to be so grouchy," Matt says. "We were done after this anyway."

"No need to be so grouchy after you jizz all over my room? I think I have every right to be grouchy, you little boyslut," I say, trying to sound chastising but just making Matt laugh. "Now, both of you shower and put your clothes back on so we can go already."

Matt springs up and heads for the bathroom, the location of which he's very familiar with. Kenny rolls onto his back to look up at me, sweaty and exhausted, and naked.

"Sorry…it's kinda hard to stop fucking him," he says.

"Oh, I know," I answer. "He considers the day wasted if he hasn't been fucked ten times."

"Ten!? My dick's going to fall off if I even think about having sex again today," Kenny complains.

"Yeah, he usually has two or three different guys he uses each day. And I'm pretty sure he uses a dildo or something to make sure he's got something always up there."

"Freaky," Kenny says. "I like him, he's good people."

"Yeah," I snort. "If you're looking for a consistent performer for your start-up gay porn studio."

"Exactly!" Kenny says. "We've already got an agreement…I suppose you could call this an audition."

I'm incredulous, for a moment my jaw just hangs open. "Well, I suppose it does make sense, considering that you're you," I concede.

"It's not just gonna be gay porn," Kenny says, attempting to calm me down or something. "All sorts. Except the creepy stuff like man-on-dog and elephant-on-Asian."

"Well, good luck with that," I say. "I suppose you're going to tell me now you're in need of a lawyer…"

"No, I've got that settled with Kyle. You'll just be expected to help," Kenny says with a grin. "But if I could talk you into a scene?"

"Not happening," I tell him, flat out. "Though if you'd asked me six years ago…"

"Before or after you started nailing Bebe?"

"Before, of course. Though the money would have made that better, actually."

At this point, Matt returns, still naked but now not-reeking-of-sex. Kenny gets out of bed with help from the both of us and walks off towards the shower.

"Pants," I growl, before Matt gets any ideas. He begrudgingly puts them on, and I notice that there's only one pair of underwear in the room, and they're definitely not his.

"I suppose you planned this?" I ask. "Since you're going commando."

"I haven't worn underwear in three years," Matt says. "It's just one fewer thing that I need to take off when I'm in a hurry to get fucked."

"But when you go to work for Kenny, you'll probably be walking around in just underwear," I point out.

"This is true," Matt says. "Underwear, or swimsuits. Or nothing!" he exclaims, positively giddy about the prospect of spending eight hours a day either mostly or completely naked getting fucked for money.

"I'm happy for you," I say. "You're gonna be doing what you love as a career."

"I'm happy for you!" he replies. "The ring? You two are getting married? Can I be best man?"

"Sure, why not," I say. "Kyle's going to ask Kenny, and I'd shoot myself in the face before I asked Fatass to have anything to do with my wedding."

Matt shrugs into his shirt. "Good. And I promise not to fuck half the wedding party."

"Thank you," I say. "I'm sure they'll all appreciate it too."

Matt grins at me. "You know…if you hadn't wanted me and Ken-ster to fuck all over your room, you shouldn't have gotten a one-bedroom place, fool. It's all your own fault."

I glare at him.

"Sorry if I pissed you off, though," he adds. "You know how I just can't help myself when I get naked and have a hard cock available." I chuckle. I know.

"Friends?" he asks, extending his hand. I take it and shake it once as Kenny comes back in, still naked.

"Friends. Now, Kenny, get your skinny ass dressed, I want some damn steak!" Kenny quickly complies, never one to turn down a free meal, even with venture capital money falling out of his pockets.

I lead them downstairs, to a teasing question if I'd joined them for a quickie from Kyle, since we were up there so long. I roll my eyes, and we head out the door as a group, all of us happy, which didn't seem imaginable five years ago…hell, didn't seem imaginable for nearly ten years. But now that I have it, I truly can't imagine not having it, and I don't want to.

I now want to get out of bed in the morning. And any time you can feel _that_ good, you're doing something right. And that's a good feeling.

**-.-**

_**Fin**_

**Notes: Maybe this doesn't flow as well as you think it should. I apologize. To be honest, if I had all the time in the world, I don't think I could get it much better. There's too much dialogue, there's too much fluff, and there's too much raunch. Though the latter two are rather contradictory. Oh well.**

**I hope you all have enjoyed these last two years. I have, of a sort. Unfortunately, this is most likely my last South Park fanfiction. I've more-or-less lost interest in SP fandom over the last six months, which has made it really difficult to complete this fic, but now that it's over, I'm happy to break up with it.**

**I hope y'all will follow me into other fandoms I choose to venture into.**

**Adios,**

**Phoenix II**


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